pictures  of  an  flnlanf)  Sea, 


pictures 

of  an 

Unlanb  Sea 


Hlfrefc  Xambourne 


Ubc  5>eseret  Mews 
Publishers* 


Copyrighted  by 

ALFRED   LAMBOURNE, 

1902. 


Bancroft  Ll^rarv 


preface. 

These  pictures,  if  such  slight  memoranda  can 
fitly  be  called  pictures,  now  appear  in  their  fourth 
guise.  They  were,  in  part,  first  issued  as  news- 
paper  and  magazine  articles,  and  secondly  as  an 
illustrated  pamphlet.  The  latter  publication  was 
given  an  extensive  circulation  on  both  sides  the 
Atlantic,  having  passed  through  many  issues,  so 
that,  in  that  form  at  least,  they  appear  to  contain 
— some  ten  years  having  elapsed  between  the  first 
and  last  editions — a  lasting  vitality.  They  were 
also  distributed  in  book  form  as  presentation  sou 
venirs,  very  few  of  these,  however,  having  been 
seen  by  the  public.  It  was  the  interest  accorded  to 
the  earlier  issues  of  the  word  pictures  that  led  to 
their  being  b  ought  out  in  the  present  volume,  and 
in  which  an  entirely  new  arrangement  of  the  mat 
ter  they  contain  has  been  made. 

As  will  readily  be  seen,  the  pictures  are  com 
posed  almost  entirely  of  paragraphs  taken  from  an 
irregular  diary,  segregated,  of  course,  from  other 
matter  contained  therein,  and  re-arranged  with 
now  and  then  a  conjunctional  word  or  sentence^ 
and  a  few  explanatory  and  imaginative  para- 


EVA 


PREFACE 


graphs.  They  have,  I  fear,  a  degree  of  harshness 
in  transition  that  will,  no  doubt,  be  unpleasant  to 
the  reader,  for  I  have  thought  it  best  to  leave  each 
entry  in  the  rough.  In  one  instance  there  has  been 
a  direct  transference  of  thought,  and  several  para 
graphs  have  been  taken  from  now  discarded  arti 
cles  and  given  here  a  place.  They  are,  on  the 
whole,  purely  descriptive,  although  containing  a 
few  extracts  from  entries  made  in  the  introspec 
tive  or  speculative  mood. 

In  the  present  arrangement  a  license  was  taken 
for  the  sake  of  unity.  The  plan  allows  of  the  mat 
ter  being  arranged  for  artistic  effect,  that  is,  irre 
spective  oj  the  order  in  which  it  was  obtained. 
The  imaginary  part  lessens  not,  I  trust,  the  value 
of  that  which  is  truth.  The  lines  of  demarcation 
are  plain,  and  there  is  no  encroachment  of  inven 
tion  upon  fact.  I  mean  in  the  descriptions — the 
main  part  of  the  text.  It  was  the  writer's  desire 
to  carry  out  to  the  full  the  plan  here  outlined.  He 
did  build  a  hut  on  the  now  noted  island,  and  in 
tended  to  live  therein.  He  would,  had  it  been 
possible  to  him,  have  made  out  of  what  is  now  but 
a  past  dream,  an  unquestioned  reality,  so  that, 
after  all,  although  a  certain  amount  of  the  frame 
work  which  holds  these  descriptions  together,  is 
fiction  pure  and  simple,  it  is  a  truth  in  the  writer's 
mind.  The  arrangement  by  which  he  surrendered 
his  homestead  entry — No.  12592 — to  the  State  of 


PREFACE 

Utah,  the  legal  fight  thereafter,  the  questions  as  to 
whether  the  land  was  of  a  mineral  or  of  an  agri 
cultural  character,  are  matters  of  local  and  de 
partmental  record.  The  receipts  for  attorney's 
fees;  papers  of  hearing;  demurrers,  answers  to 
demurrers,  etc.,  without  end,  are  facts,  and  so  too, 
are  the  circulars,  catalogues,  etc.,  which  I  received 
whilst  planning  my  vineyard;  a  vineyard  which 
the  daily  papers  declared  at  the  time,  was  to  be 
like  unto  that  of  Naboth,  whose  luxuriant  beauty 
caused  a  tragic  episode  in  the  history  of  ancient 
Zion. 

Captain  Stansbury  first  pointed  out  (in  his 
report  of  surveys  1849  50}  how  very  much  in  the 
way  of  unusual  scenery  might  be  enjoyed  on  a 
cruise  that  would  comprehend  all  parts  of  the 
Inland  Sea;  and  its  briny  waters  and  their  sur 
roundings,  as  viewed  from  the  southern  mainland, 
certainly  make  such  a  circumnavigation  appear 
desirable.  It  was  on  such  a  lengthened  cruise  that 
the  picturesque  nature  of  Gunnison  Island  was 
made  apparent  to  the  writer,  and  he  felt  his  desire 
to  live  upon  it.  This,  too,  was  long  before  his 
homesteading  of  the  place  was  a  possibility.  The 
pictures  are  the  result  of  that  first  and  subsequent 
visits,  and  through  an  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  moods  of  the  Inland  Sea. 

Perhaps  the  pictures  contain  too  much  of  the 
superlative  vein;  but  nothing  has  been  exagger- 


PREFACE 

ated.  That  which  is  distinctive  to  the  place  of  their 
making — that  has  been  dwelt  upon.  All  that  is 
told  as  having  been  seen  was  seen,  and  may  be  seen 
again  by  any  who  may  so  desire.  Even  uuhile  I 
write,  the  engineers  are  at  work  on  the  Lucin  cut 
off,  a  piece  of  railroading  skill  that  will  take  the 
traveling  public  who  make  the  overland  trip 
across  the  main  reach  of  the  Inland  Sea,  and 
within  sight  of  Gunnison  Island,  so  that  by  the 
many  the  truth  or  untruth  of  these  pictures  may 
then  be  known.  The  paragraphs  were  selected — to 
one  selection,  many  discarded — to  form  strong, 
simple  word-pictures;  to  give  an  impress  such  as 
was  made  upon  the  mind  of  him  who  wrote  them. 
The  writer,  however,  does  not  try  to  corroborate  or 
to  chime  in  with  any  previous  statements.  He  told 
to  his  diary  his  own  emotions  and  seeings  alone. 

May  he  here  express  what  has  been  his  hope  in 
arranging  these  pages — that  whatever  shortcom 
ings  the  work  may  contain,  the  new  reader,  who 
soever  or  wheresoever  he  may  be,  will  pardon  the 
putting  forth  of  an  uncompleted  task,  and  at  the 
same  time  see  in  the  design,  something  of  a  true 
artistic  purpose,  a  harmony  in  this  recalling,  this 
sketching  of  scenes,  all  of  which  were  found  within 
the  circle  of  horizon  visible  from  his  own  doorstep. 


Contents* 


Introduction. 
Gbe  ITnlanD  Sea. 

I.  (Bunnison  ITslanfc  in  Winter. 

II.  TUfltlD  anD  TlGlinDi5  /Iftarcb. 
HI.  "UlnDer  tbe  Dog  Star. 
IV.  IDofce  of  tbe  Swan. 

v.    (Sunnteon  ITslanD— jfarewell. 
Supplement 


plates. 


I.  Sunrise  at  (Bunnison  HslanD. 

II.  Gbe  mortb  Cliff. 
in.  Desolate  ©bores. 

IV.  3Blacfc  *Rocfc  from  tbe  Dunes. 

V.  awlliQbt  at  tbe  /Rarsbes. 

VI.  Htterglow  on  tbe  *QClasatcb. 

VII.  Ht  IRest— promontory  point. 


"That  is  lest  which  lieth  nearest." 


flntrotwctfon, 

The  Inland  Sea  is  unique.  In  the  Quarter- 
nary  period,  so  our  geologists  tell  us,  a  vast 
body  of  glacier-fed  waters  covered  the  valleys 
of  north-western  Utah.  Of  the  ancient  Bon- 
neville,  as  that  vanished  sea  is  designated,  our 
subject  is  the  bitter  fragment.  Much  has 
been  written  of  late  concerning  this  reminder 
of  other  days,  but  only,  aside  from  scientific 
statements,  in  glittering  generalities,  and  by 
men  whose  knowledge  of  the  facts  was  but 
superficial  indeed. 

The  truth  is  that  the  Inland  Sea,  or  the 
Great  Salt  Lake  as  it  is  more  often  called,  is 
neither  the  sullen,  listless,  deadly  sheet  of 
water  it  was  once  described  as  being,  nor  is 
it,  on  the  contrary,  that  realm  of  endless 
charm  which  late  travelers  and  writers  have 
endeavored  to  make  it  appear.  It  is  compos 
ite.  Alternately,  we  are  captivated  by  the 

15 


INTEODUCTION. 

strange  beauty  it  presents,  and  repelled  by 
the  ugliness  that  is  seen  along  its  shores. 

By  the  low  grounds  marking  the  margins  of 
the  valleys,  or  where  the  tall,  dark  hills  slope 
down  to  the  water's  edge  in  commonplace, 
rounded  forms,  or  with  broad,  flat,  sage- 
covered  spaces  between  their  feet  and  the 
shore,  the  ugliness  is  most  apparent.  Larva- 
covered,  or  white  with  encrusted  salt  and 
alkali,  the  beaches  at  those  places  are 
truly  forbidding.  The  eye  is  offended,  the 
mind  is  distressed.  Melancholy  has  taken  up 
its  permanent  abode  along  those  repellant  and 
desolate  shores. 

Elsewhere,  despite  this  fact,  attractions, 
and  even  remarkable  beauties  are  seldom 
wanting.  Where  the  mountains  stoop  precipi 
tously  to  the  sea,  or  where  the  islands  lift 
abruptly  from  its  shining  surface,  are  scenes 
both  grand  and  imposing.  The  pale  green 
water  breaks  in  turquoise  waves  upon  beaches 
of  glistening  pebbles,  or  lies  stilly  transparent 
upon  stretches  of  soft,  white  sand.  Where 
the  streams  enter  the  sea  on  its  eastern  side, 

16 


INTEODUCTION 

are  extensive  marshes,  haunted  by  the  birds 
usually  found  under  such  conditions,  and  other 
wild  birds  dwell  on  the  islands.  The  western 
shores  are  strewn  with  monstrous  boulders,  or 
littered  with  great  heaps  of  fallen  stone;  high 
cliffs  look  down  upon  the  passer-by;  along  the 
far  horizon  are  chains  of  lofty  and  noble 
mountains,  and  always  is  the  Inland  Sea 
strangely  respondent  to  the  changing  skies 
and  the  light  of  a  brilliant  and  prismatic 
luminary. 

In  altitude,  the  Inland  Sea  is  4,210  feet 
above  ocean  level;  its  length  is  somewhat 
between  seventy  and  eighty  miles,  its  width 
between  thirty  and  forty,  and  in  outline  is 
somewhat  peculiar.  Roughly  speaking,  it  may 
be  said  to  resemble  a  human  hand.  The 
fingers  are  pressed  together  and  point  toward 
the  north,  north-west.  The  stretch  of  water 
forming  the  thumb  is  known  as  Bear  River 
Bay,  and  the  dividing  mountains  between 
thumb  and  fingers,  as  Promontory  Range,  In 
the  palm  of  the  hand  are  four  large  islands — 
Stansbury's,  Antelope  or  Church,  Carrington 

3 

17 


INTRODUCTION 

and  Fremont,  and  besides  these,  three  that  are 
smaller  lie  away  to  the  north — Strong's  Knob, 
Dolphin  Island  and  Gunnison.  Along  the 
eastern  shore  lie  the  Wasatch  Mountains,  a 
bold  and  picturesque  chain,  to  the  south  are 
the  less  known  and  lower  Oquirrhs,  the  Tuilla 
or  Grantsville  Mountains,  and  to  the  west,  the 
Terrace  and  other  spurs  of  the  Desert  Range. 
Black  Rock,  Garfield  Beach,  and  Saltair 
Pavilion  are  all  on  the  southern  shore.  From 
either  of  these  three  named  points,  looking 
northward,  sky  and  water  are  seen  to  meet, 
save  on  very  clear  days,  when  the  Malad,  and 
the  white,  snow-covered  peaks  of  the  Raft 
River  Mountains,  greet  the  sight,  defining  in 
that  direction  the  barrier  line  to  the  ancient 
Bonneville. 


18 


(Bunnteon  Itelaufc  in  TKHinter 


pictures 

of  an 

Unlanb  Sea 

i. 

<5unnt0on  1F$lan&  fn  WUnter 

Ghostly,  wrapped  in  its  shroud  of  snow,  my 
island  stands  white  above  the  blackness  of 
unfreezing  waters. 

What  have  I  done?  Although  I  had  lived 
by  anticipation  these  days,  no  sooner  did  the 
sails  of  the  departing  yacht  vanish  below  the 
watery  horizon,  and  leave  me  with  my  thoughts 
alone,  than  I  realized  at  once,  and  with  a 
strange  sinking  of  the  heart,  too,  how  more 
intense  indeed,  how  deeper  than  all  imagining, 
is  the  wildness  and  desolation  of  the  savage 
poem  around  me. 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Clearly  an  error — one  should  not  be  rash! 
In  winter  this  comfortless  place  might  be 
some  lonely  spot  of  the  Arctic.  Often  on 
still  nights  the  snow  around  my  dwelling  is 
illumined  by  the  boreal  light,  and  at  times  of 
tempest  is  heard  through  the  hours  the  grind 
ing  of  boulders  as  they  are  lifted  by  the 
heavy  waters  and  then  let  fall  again  to  pound 
great  holes  in  the  outlying  strata,  or  the  roar 
of  the  breakers  as  they  hurl  briny  foam  far 
up  the  face  of  the  northern  cliff. 

"A  man,"  says  Alger,  "may  keep  by  himself 
because  he  is  either  a  knave  or  a  fool,"  and 
the  wise  Lord  Bacon,  in  writing  "Of  Friend 
ship,"  has  quoted  in  italics  this  sentence  from 
Aristotle,  "Whosoever  is  delighted  in  solitude 
is  either  a  wild  beast  or  a  god."  Now  I  am 
not  a  knave,  and  there  are  good  reasons  I 
hope,  why  I  should  not  consider  myself  a  fool. 
Neither  am  I  a  wild  beast,  nor  do  I  arrogate 
unto  myself  the  being  a  god.  And  yet,  for 
the  time  being,  I  have  chosen  to  be  alone. 
What  writes  Schopenhauer?  "What  a  man 

22 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

has  in  himself,"  argues  the  sage,  "is  the  chief 
element  in  his  happiness.  But  this,"  he  makes 
haste  to  define  as — "apart  from  health  and 
beauty — the  power  to  observe  and  commune." 
"The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man,"  we 
allow  that  dictum.  Nature  is  secondary.  The 
alleys  in  the  wood  or  forest  of  Windsor  or 
Arden  were  but  backgrounds  in  the  mind 
of  Shakespeare — stage  settings  for  the  actors 
in  the  human  drama.  But  here  is  the  digest 
of  the  thought  we  follow:  If  the  seeking  of 
isolation  "proceed  not  out  of  the  mere  love 
of  solitude,  but  out  of  a  love  and  desire  to 
sequester  a  man's  self  for  a  higher  conversa 
tion,  then  indeed,  one  may  feel  the  god-like 
within  us,"  and  in  this  benefit  I  hope  to  share. 
Saying  unto  my  soul,  from  out  the  wildness 
of  this  desert  solitude,  I  desire  to  extract  the 
beautiful  and  the  good,  I  plead  NOT  GUILTY 
to  the  charge  of  moroseness,  and  also  to  those 
equal  follies  against  which  the  master  we  have 
already  quoted  has  warned  us — "a  too  great 
admiration  of  antiquity  and  a  love  of  novelty." 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

More  dreary  are  the  silent,  implacable  days 
than  are  the  times  of  uproar.  For  Christmas 
Carol,  for  New  Year's  Greeting,  I  heard  but 
the  shrill,  sudden  call  of  the  startled  gull,  or 
the  dry,  harsh  croak  of  the  passing  raven. 

"No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro" 

The  bitter  cold  frets  in  the  stillness,  the 
surface  of  wind-drift  and  level,  or  slowly  the 
big  snow  flakes  fall  out  of  the  sky.  I  have 
thoughts  of  Teufelsdrockh.  Is  this  the  North 
Cape?  My  hut — massive  though  small,  its 
low,  thick  walls  built  of  rough,  untrimmed 
slabs  of  stone,  taken  from  the  cliff  by  which 
they  stand,  its  roof,  earth-covered,  its  chim 
ney,  starting  from  the  ground,  and  almost 
half  as  big  as  the  hut  itself — might  be  that 
of  some  hardy  Lofoten  fisherman.  My  boat, 
too,  the  Hope,  under  its  canvas  cover,  the 
distant  islands  like  mighty  bergs,  and  the 
tongues  of  land  like  snow-covered  floes,  carry 
out  my  present  thought.  By  the  red  light, 
also,  that  so  often  flares  in  the  sky,  and  the 
midnight  moon  with  a  lonely  storm  circle 

24 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

around  it,  like  an  arctic  parhelion,  the  north 
ern  feeling,  the  semblance  to  the  frozen  circle 
is  further  supplied.  I  rise  late.  Oil  and 
driftwood  are  not  so  plentiful  that  I  should 
use  unseemly  hours  for  their  burning.  For 
exercise,  when  the  weather  is  favorable,  I 
hack  at  the  tough  old  trunks  of  the  sarco- 
batus  bushes,  or  grub  among  the  gnarled  and 
twisted  roots  of  the  antique  sage.  At  other 
times,  I  take  a  romp  with  "Twa  Dogs"  along 
the  beach,  or  across  to  the  opposite  bay,  and 
so  cheat  the  hours  that  creep  on  with  leaden 
feet.  What  my  poor,  dumb  brutes  may  think 
of  this  place,  I  cannot  say,  but  I  read  ennui  in 
their  gaze.  Why  I  remain  here  is  a  mystery 
to  them,  and  they  have  not  the  recourse  of 
labor  or  book.  As  in  the  Norse  mythology, 
the  sun  often  comes  up  all  faint  and  wan,  sick 
nigh  unto  death,  and  looks  languid  o'er  the 
world  of  white.  My  island  is  but  a  vast, 
natural  sun-dial,  a  horologe  set  in  this  sea 
to  measure  the  flight  of  time.  Its  mighty 
gnomon  is  the  northern  cliff,  and  its  circling 
shadow  has  crept  thus  far  how  many  years? 

4 

25 


1HE  INLAND  SEA 

The  sky  sometimes  appears  black, — that  is,  at 
noonday  when  it  is  clear  and  the  near  snow 
fields  rise  against  it.  Black  with  a  thin 
scumbling  of  atmospheric  cobalt.  The  snow, 
perchance,  takes  on  the  spectrum  hues;  the 
angles,  flutings,  waves  and  mounds  of  wind- 
carved  drifts,  catching  the  white  rays  of  light 
and  resolving  them  back  into  their  component 
parts,  or,  on  cloudy  days,  it  shrinks  together 
and  grows  leaden  hued  in  the  breath  of 
chinook.  In  the  dim,  uncertain  and  mysterious 
close  of  day,  when  all  objects  appear  to  ex 
pand  in  size  and  grow  monstrous  to  the  sight, 
I  half  expect  to  see,  springing  from  that 
Niflheim  in  the  north,  the  gaunt,  grey  form 
of  the  Fenris  wolf,  and  to  behold  his  fiery  eyes 
as  he  passes  onward  to  his  terrible  feast,  when 
Odin  and  Thor,  and  the  lesser  ones  too,  shall 
become  his  prey  in  Ragnarok,  the  last,  weird 
twilight  of  the  northern  gods. 

What  complaint  shall  I  make?  No  time 
this  to  give  way  to  the  dumps.  My  gage  was 
thrown  down,  and  I  must  e'en  abide  the  result. 

26 


1HE  INLAND  SEA 

No  recourse  now  other  than  to  meet  without 
flinching  this  sullen,  this  stealthy  or  boister 
ous  foe.  Were  he  never  so  silent,  this  grim 
tyrant  would,  did  he  but  once  find  me  in  his 
power,  turn  my  blood  into  ice,  and  harden  my 
flesh  as  iron.  Two  months  now  and  a  day. 
Time  should  not  be  measured  by  the  tick  o' 
the  clock,  but  by  gain  of  experience.  Accord 
ing  to  that  mode  of  reckoning,  I  have  consider 
ably  aged.  "Blessed  are  the  lymphatic," 
they  are  the  masters  of  the  earth.  Strong  is 
the  negative  force.  Blessed  is  the  bear  who 
during  the  period  of  hibernation  can  suck  his 
own  paw  and  let  the  dark  hours  go  by.  The 
first  part  of  a  violent  loneliness  so  like  that 
of  a  deep  pain  or  grief;  and  who  would  have 
thought  that  the  desert  could  thus  quickly  have 
taught  me  so  much?  The  red  sparks  from 
the  chimney  which,  pressing  my  nose  against 
the  panes,  I  see — how  quick  they  career,  like 
mad  snakes  across  the  snow,  and  are  quenched! 
It  is  one  thing  to  look  on  this  Inland  Sea, 
from  where  its  waves  are  seen  to  rise  and  fall, 
keeping  time,  in  rhythmic  motion,  as  it  were, 

27 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

to  the  sound  of  music  and  the  dancers'  feet, 
and  it  is  quite  another  thing  to  brave  it  in 
this  solitude  and  alone.  This  is  the  unfriend 
liness  rather  than  the  sweet3  of  seclusion. 
Two  of  the  chairs  which  the  recluse  Thoreau 
mentions  as  among  his  rustic  furniture — first, 
for  solitude,  second,  for  friendship,  third,  for 
society — would  be  useless  here.  The  Inland 
Sea,  and  the  bleak,  inhospitable  time,  keep  my 
island  and  myself  in  unbroken  ostracism. 

Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton  once  built  a  hut. 
Over  forty  years  ago,  on  the  Boulsworth  Moors 
— in  Yorkshire — he  painted  on  the  spot,  when, 
as  he  tells  us,  "shepherds  refused  to  wander 
on  the  hills  and  sheep  were  lost  in  the  snow." 
Thoreau,  at  Walden  Pond,  wrote  a  book,  and, 
besides  with  transcripts  of  nature,  filled  half 
its  pages  with  a  sort  of  grumbling  philosophy. 
"Society"  came  to  Hamerton;  and  at  "The 
Pond,"  even  on  the  coldest  nights  of  a  New 
England  winter,  the  creak  of  timber-laden 
wagons  could  be  heard  on  the  near  Lexington 
Road.  Twice  a  day  the  Fitchburg  train  went 
snorting  by.  Here  it  is  different.  That  star 

28 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

which  is  sometimes  seen  quivering  across  the 
hills  of  Promontory,  is  my  only  visitant,  if 
visitant  it  can  be  called.  I  know  it  to  be  the 
headlight  of  a  locomotive  dragging  its  train 
load  of  human  beings  across  the  land,  and 
fancy  makes  me  think  that  the  lone  light  of 
my  window 

Flashes  an  answer  back — confederate. 

Only  I  fear  it  is  not  seen.  In  that  same 
fancy  I  meet  my  friends.  I  am  not  molested 
by  drunken  gypsies;  no  angry  poacher  comes 
here,  nor  by  any  possibility  will  some  scullery 
maid  pass  this  way,  whom  I  might  espouse. 
Neither  does  anyone  come  to  offer  the  per 
formance  of  a  household  drudgery,  no  loved 
one  of  loved  ones  appears,  to  pass  with  me  an 
evening,  the  memory  of  which  shall  be  glad 
ness.  I  am  not  as  fortunate  as  he  of  Walden, 
or  Diogenes  in  his  tub.  My  repented  temerity 
has  brought  me  for  the  nonce  where  I  am 
more  isolated  than  Stylites  on  his  pillar,  less 
visited  than  was  Timon  of  Athens. 

What  is  solitude?— a  condition  of  mind. 
29 


1HE  INLAND  SEA 

After  all,  there  are  days  when  I  but  little  feel 
the  loss  of  the  world.  To  lack  in  friendship 
for  one's  friends;  to  be  at  discord  with — to  be 
out  of  fitness  with — one's  surroundings,  is 
more  to  be  in  solitude  than  merely  to  be 
alone.  Selfishness  is  solitude.  Its  bitterness 
increases  as  does  the  salt  in  this  Inland  Sea. 
Just  now  it  appears  to  be  shunned  by  all  that 
has  life.  But  it  is  self-contained,  it  gives 
back  scorn  for  scorn.  It  returns  with  interest 
the  day's  sullen  or  wrathful  mood. 

Snow  to-day  slid  down  the  northern  cliff. 
Mixed  with  stones,  it  made  considerable  noise. 
The  snow-falls  here  are  thought  to  be  light; 
but  surely  there  is  enough.  On  the  mountains, 
too,  a  fierce  wind  storm  is  raging.  Up  there 
one  could  scarcely  keep  his  footing.  The 
great  snow-banners  are  whirled  from  the 
crests,  and  grand  I  know  is  the  sound,  and 
solemn,  too,  when  the  strong  northern  winds 
smite  upon  those  wind-harps,  the  pines,  and 
along  the  mountain  sides,  the  snow  is  caught 
from  the  forest  branches  and  sent  madly  up 

30 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

by  crag  and  ravine.  But  see !  Behold,  how  the 
winds  can  revel  on  these  waters,  too!  Behold 
how  they  sweep  over  the  long  reaches  of  un 
broken  water,  how  they  pick  up  the  foam- 
dust  from  the  waves  of  the  Inland  Sea,  and, 
mixed  with  snow-dust,  from  the  island  cliff, 
whirl  it  around  and  around!  Solemn,  too, 
heard  in  the  night,  is  that  other  sound,  the 
lashing  of  distant  storms.  The  level  of  this 
sea  is  to  my  island,  what  the  floor  of  the 
clouds  is  to  the  mountain  peaks.  Then  no 
wonder  the  strong  winds  rage!  What  a  sud 
den  obstacle  these  stubborn  rocks  must  be! 
We  sometimes  speak  of  a  blinding  snow-storm. 
I  doubt  me  if  Dante,  as  he  walked  by  the  side 
of  Virgil,  witnessed  more  fierce  commotions 
when,  in  the  second  circle  of  the  Inferno,  he 
beheld  the  shades  of  the  carnal  malefactors 

"When  they  arrive  before  the  precipice, 

The  infernal  hurricane  that  never  rests 
Hurtles  the  spirits  onward  in  its  rapine, 
Whirling  them  round,  and  smiting,  it  molests  them,' 
and 

31 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

"Hither,  thither,  upward,  downward,  drives  them" 
than  I  sometimes  see  on  my  desert  island. 
Like  the  blast  of  a  trumpet,  the  wind  rushes 
through  the  narrow  space  between  the  cliff 
and  my  hut.  As  fiercely,  these  winter  nights, 
the  storms  of  snow  and  sleet  are  whirled  around, 
"upward,  downward,"  and  hurled  back,  and  back 
again,  from  the  face  of  the  northern  wall. 

"And  thou  in  peaceful  calm  art  sitting, 
While  I  rejoice  in  restless  heels" 

Chiron's  words  are  in  my  ears.  Perhaps  it 
was  past  wanderings  that  incline  me  now  to 
this  rest.  Is  there  not  somewhat,  too,  of  the 
Chiron  in  every  man?  "It  is  but  the  modern 
fool  that  goes  abroad  to  stare  at  landscapes." 
Then  the  tramp  and  the  Darby  must  quarrel 
it  out.  "Now  we  have  drunk  the  wine  let  us 
eat  the  glass"  the  sneer  extends  to  the  de- 
scriber,  too,  "In  peaceful  calm  art  sitting" — 
then  in  mine  hut,  0,  hater  of  shams,  the  sneer 
is  put  aside. 

The  landscape  descriptions  of  Walter  Scott? 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Did  they  not  come  from  the  inmost  man?  Their 
healthiness  shall  not  be  denied.  And  Goethe, 
too,  the  great  admired,  was  he  not  of  the 
band?  Certainly  he  loved  nature  just  as  sin 
cerely  as  any  poet  of  the  farther  day,  nor  did 
he  disdain  to  recall  her.  Shall  we  apply  the 
taunt  to  these?  Or  to  Miller,  or  Burns?  And 
Kingsley — the  minute  philosopher — how  true 
his  words  have  rung! 

Clio,  Thalia  or  Melpomene. 

The  landscape  story,  is  it  not,  also,  an  epic? 
If  the  elder  poets  enjoyed  nature  like  the 
drinking  of  old  wine,  and  yet  remained  silent 
— why  did  they  sing  of  other  human  emotions? 
Or  is  it  only  praiseworthy,  think  ye,  to  sing 
of  meaner  things?  Of  wine,  then,  and  sensual 
lust,  whereof  they  sang  too  much? 

To  night  the  wind  roars.  What  care  I? 
The  louder  the  rumble  in  the  spacious  chim 
ney,  the  brighter  will  burn  my  drift-wood  fire. 
There  is  nothing  to  fear.  One  must  oppose 
his  resources  to  the  blind  anger  of  nature, 

33 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

and  trust,  in  the  end,  to  prevail.  What  to  me 
if  the  wind  grows  furious  in  its  strength,  and 
beats  and  clamors  at  window  and  door?  What 
if  the  waves  boom  by  the  northern  cliff? 
What  if  they  roar  again  and  drive  the  foam 
far  up  the  sands  of  the  little  bay?  What 
though  the  sleet  and  hail  lash  against  the 
window  panes?  These  are  but  to-be- expected 
phases  of  my  hermit  life,  and  ones  to  have  been 
foreseen.  Stir  anew  the  embers  of  the  smol 
dering  fire,  let  the  red  sparks  fly;  remember 
that  thy  food  is  safe  cached,  and  that  the  hut 
is  firm-planted  and  strong  as  the  gale! 

For  a  homesteader,  these  are  peculiar  if  not 
incongruous  surroundings.  Small  cause  does 
there  seem  for  lament.  If  the  hut  is  rough 
on  the  exterior,  it  is  bright  and  cosy  within. 
I  look  around  the  room  and  there  is  that  in 
sight  to  both  feed  the  mind  and  to  please  the 
eye.  This  is  not  a  penitent's  cell.  When  one 
goes  into  self -banishment,  why  not  have  his 
household  gods  around  him?  The  German 
was  right.  One  needs  a  focal  point  of  con- 

34 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

trast.  Amid  the  tides  of  busy  life,  the  bare 
apartment,  the  white-washed  walls,  were  all 
sufficient.  Here  is  a  difference.  The  soul 
amid  this  barrenness  yearns  for  the  ideal,  for 
the  creations  of  art  and  imagination  to  fill  the 
empty  hours.  Here  one  needs  the  complex; 
the  outpourings  of  the  human  mind,  food  for 
the  desires  put  into  the  blood  and  brain  by 
thousands  of  years  of  luxury  and  civilization. 
Old  days  or  new,  hermits,  the  world  over, 
are  much  the  same. 

"Exalt,  rapt,  ecstatic" 

criminal  and  miser,  each  one  must  have  his 
motive  for  body  or  for  soul. 

"Most  smiling,  smooth,  detested  parasites!" 

No  exalt  I— no  gold  lies  buried  in  these 
sands — nor  with  the  misanthrope  need  I 
exclaim. 

To  be  of  use,  to  reclaim  the  barren  waste, 
to  make  sure  in  the  future  my  daily  bread. 
These,  too,  are  among  my  thoughts.  Posses 
sion  always  gives  a  certain  amount  of  pride 

35 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

and  love,  and  over  my  island  and  desert  acre 
age,  whereon  the  vine  may  yet  grow,  and 
where  may  yet  resound  the  glad  voices  and 
laughter  of  woman  and  children,  I  look  as 
fondly  as  ever  does  the  family  inheritor  of 
broad  estate.  In  the  meantime,  till  such 
consummation  come,  why  not  enliven  my  vigil 
with  pleasant  labor?  Why  not  fill  it  with 
enjoyment  gleaned  from  the  past?  Why  not 
enrich  it  with  the  wisdom  of  others? 

A  bed — a  bunk,  I  should  say — shelving;  a 
table — six  feet  of  wide  pine  board,  one  edge 
fastened  to  the  wall;  a  bench;  a  rack,  formed 
from  the  skull  of  a  mountain  sheep,  with 
curved  and  massive  horns;  my  unused  gun 
thereon,  and  a  bin,  and  the  means  of  cooking 
— these  are  part  of  my  goods.  On  the  other 
hand — realm  of  the  mind — stands  my  easel. 
There  is  a  statuette  by  Danneker — Ariadne — 
and  a  plate  from  Titian's  Sacred  and  Profane 
Love.  Close  by  the  window,  there  hangs  a 
portrait,  with  autograph  attached,  of  a  famous 
modern  beauty,  and  over  my  bunk  a  large 
framed  card: 

36 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

11  Avenue  Villa,  50  Holland  St.,  Kensington. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 

Greet  their  Friends 
On  the  20th  September,   1884, 

The  Anniversary 

Of  their  5Qth  Wedding  day— 

Their  Golden  Wedding." 

And  a  curtain  of  much- faded  damask  keeps 
from  grime  and  from  dust  my  allotment  of 
books.  Over  all,  articles  of  use  and  neces 
sity,  objects  of  taste  and  indulgence,  a  "chain- 
dropped  lamp"  sheds  a  mellow  ray. 

I  turn  to  my  books.  What  a  comfort  it  is, 
in  a  place  like  this,  to  have  one's  friends 
around  him!  In  that  construement  I  am  not 
alone.  There  they  stand,  the  glorious  com 
pany;  silent,  it  is  true,  but  ever  ready  to 
speak.  It  may  be  that  one  cannot  hope  to  be 
their  equals;  yet  they  are  ever  ready  to  be 
the  teachers.  "Do  you  ask  to  be  the  compan 
ions  of  nobles?"  To  this  question,  we  may 
give  an  affirmative  answer.  In  life,  some  of 
those  who  stand  there  so  calmly,  were  un 
known  to  each  other,  or  perhaps  they  lived  to 

37 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

be  as  enemies.  Now  they  are  friendly  enough, 
side  by  side  in  their  work  of  ministry.  Some 
there  were,  who  were  "both  actors  and  spec 
tators  too."  Some  wrought  in  solitude,  and 
some  amid  the  plaudits  of  the  admiring  world. 
And  others,  though  they  may  have  known  it 
not,  nor  guessed  what  lay  in  the  course  of 
time — centuries,  customs,  evolutions,  holding 
them  apart — yet  seem  destined  now  to  be 
linked  as  twin  stars,  or  to  shine  in  clusters,  as 
Dante  has  grouped  them  in  the  world  of 


Who  can  tell  where  the  written  word  shall 
be  read?  A  singular  place  this — this  lonely 
and  desolate  rock,  engirdled  by  a  wintry  sea — 
in  which  to  pursue  the  thoughts  of  those  who 
once  trod  the  classic  vales  of  Hellas,  or  follow 
the  lines  of  those  who  graced  the  court  of 
Queen  Bess.  Within  reach  of  my  hand  are 
the  best  results  of  the  human  mind,  the  work 
of  the  individual  condensing  the  thoughts  of 
the  race.  I  have  but  to  stretch  forth  my 
arm  to  annihilate  ages.  Homer,  Virgil  and 
Dante — these  immortals  are  mine.  I  am 

58 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

taken  to  revel  in  Greece,  and  Rome  and 
mediaeval  Italy. 

A  voice  sonorous,  deep-toned  as  the  sea, 

and  those  others,  too,  I  hear.  From  the  Iliad 
of  the  blind  old  man,  from  Ulysses*  wanderings, 
I  turn  to  him  who  sang  of  ^Eneas,  Prince  of 
Troy,  and  to  him,  the  world-worn,  and  his 
mystic  song.  To  Italy,  too,  I  am  carried  by 
the  great  Boccaccio,  with  his  stories  of  un 
dying  fame.  To  Spain,  Cervantes,  with  his 
Don  Quixote,  leads  the  way.  Goethe,  to  Ger 
many,  through  his  perfected  drama  of  Faust. 
For  England  there  are  Chaucer,  Milton  and 
Shakespeare;  and  for  France,  Moliere,  Beranger 
and  Chateaubriand.  For  men  of  action,  there 
are  Caesar  and  Humboldt,  and  as  intermedi 
ates,  Gladstone  and  Heine  lead  the  way  to 
Thomas  Carlyle,  and  he  to  Emerson.  There  is 
science,  faith,  history,  fiction.  From  the 
noise  of  waves,  my  thoughts  are  carried  to  the 
din  of  arms.  Through  "battles,  sieges,  for 
tunes,"  from  countries  of  sunshine  and  pas 
sion;  from  the  land  of  old  Omar's  Rubaiyat,  to 

39 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

those  of  the  pallid  north,  I  am  transported  in 
an  instant,  and  this  is  accomplished  by  the 
Kalevala  and  Tegner's  Siegfried's  Saga. 

On  the  table  lie  a  few  de  lux.  The  Deca 
meron  has  the  etchings — first  impressions — 
of  Leopold  Flameng.  The  Lyrics  have  steel 
plates  from  the  designs  of  Panquet,  Jacque 
and  Grenier.  There  are  Suckling's  Poems, 
with  the  portrait  by  Vandyke;  Santine's 
Picciola,  Herrick's  Hesperides  and  Noble 
Numbers;  old  Pepy's  Diary,  and  Walt  Whit 
man's  Leaves  of  Grass. 

And  among  them,  at  the  moment,  like  pil 
grims  who  have  lost  their  way,  Architecture 
of  the  Heavens,  by  Nichol,  and  Lives  of  the 
most  eminent  Painters  and ,  Sculptors  of  the 
Order  of  S.  Dominic. 

I  turn  to  my 'books.  When  too  much  moved 
by  the  fire,  the  passion  of  Poe,  I  can  change  to 
the  laughing  moralities  of  Ingoldsby  Legends. 
When  wearied  with  the  courtly,  the  sentitious 
sentences  of  the  great  Veralum,  I  can  pass  to 
the  less  golden  wisdom  of  the  grave  Mon- 

40 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

taigne.  From  the  study  of  "Ambition,"  and 
"Love"  and  "Fortune,"  short  is  the  road  to 
the  caustic  satire  of  "Miss  Kilmanseg."  But 
as  with  Barham  I  am  best  pleased  in  the  end 
with  the  -solemn  tones  of  the  "As  I  Laye 
A-thinkynge,"  so,  at  last,  with  Hood,  I  follow 
with  beating  heart  the  bitter  pathos  of  "The 
Bridge  of  Sighs,"  and  the  self-probing  stanzas 
of  "The  Haunted  House." 

Of  spectres,  however,  the  Inland  Sea  is 
supposed  to  have  one  of  its  own.  Not  one 
self-conjured,  but  one  ab  extra.  It  is  the 
grave-digger  Jean  Baptiste.  Branded  and 
shackled,  the  man  himself  was  kept,  it  is  said, 
a  solitary  prisoner  on  one  of  these  islands. 
He  attempted  escape.  By  one  of  the  river 
mouths,  a  skeleton  was  lately  found,  a  fetter 
and  link  of  chain  were  still  on  the  ankle- bone. 
It  was  the  remains  of  Jean  Baptiste.  He  had 
met  his  death  by  drowning. 


an&  Winty  flDarcb 


II. 
Wilb  an&  THIlin&    flDarcb 


Presto  —  transformation!  What  has  done 
this?  Is  this  the  work  of  enchanter's  wand? 
Can  this  be  my  island?  The  scene  is  changed, 
the  place  seems  to  have  shifted  its  latitude, 
and  to  float  in  a  southern  clime.  For  many 
days,  mankind  and  I  have  been  strangers,  but, 
lo!  sociality  has  come  to  my  door.  But  lately, 
too,  I  became  hypochondriacal  from  enforced 
self-musings;  now  I  loose  myself  in  news  of 
the  world.  The  gloomy  season  is  ended;  there 
is  spread  the  festal  board;  and  welcome  the 
turn  of  the  year,  but  more  welcome  these 
sounds  of  glad  human  voices. 

A  thrilling  spectacle!  Just  now  —  at  twi 
light  —  the  Inland  Sea  rages  beneath  a  storm  of 
the  Vernal  equinox.  March  brings  in  the 

45 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

spring  and  it  comes  in  a  fierce  disorder. 
Grouped  by  the  hut  door  we  watch  the  storm. 
Hurrying  from  windward  (N.  W.)  the  waves  in 
thick-set  ranks,  sweep  past  the  cliff-head,  and 
wildly  burst  on  the  island  sands.  Huge  foam- 
globes,  formed  by  the  beating  of  the  briny 
waves  among  the  rocks,  are  cast  adrift,  and 
sent  seawards  by  the  changing  wind.  In  this 
swift  transition  and  extreme  of  effect,  who 
would  think  that  this  island,  knew  such  winter 
storms?  In  some  respects  it  might  be  likened 
to  an  out-lying  fragment  of  "sea-beat  Hebri 
des,"  but  now  with  the  distant  shining  of 
snow-covered  peaks  and  the  gleaming  waters, 
it  more  closely  resembles  some  lonely  rock  of 
Azores. 

There  is  plenitude  of  shipping.  Beside  the 
yacht,  which  arrived  this  noon  with  a  wet 
deck  and  a  tired  crew,  a  fifty-foot  schooner 
rides  at  anchor  near  by,  my  own  small  boat  is 
dragged  up  the  shore,  and  a  little  sloop — 
which  parted  her  cable  at  the  beginning  of 
the  storm — lies  half  wrecked  on  the  island 

46 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

sands.  Each  wave  that  comes  breaks  anew 
the  stranded  boat,  and  from  mast  and  rigging 
of  schooner  and  yacht  comes  an  answering 
whistle  to  the  stormy  blast.  To  the  west 
ward  an  angry  blare  of  lurid  color  streams 
upward  to  the  wind- torn  clouds,  and  it  finds  an 
echo  on  the  far-off  Weber  cliffs.  In  the  north 
a  strange  crystalline  light — amber  through 
cobalt — illumines  the  air.  To  the  eastward, 
the  sky  is  all  but  cloudless.  Across  the  water 
— of  a  cold  and  sheeny  green — lies  a  length 
ened  trail  of  pallid  gray.  Dim  and  pale,  the 
ghost  of  a  dead  world,  the  moon,  lifts  its  round 
above  the  distant  Wasatch,  and  stares  at  the 
wild  unrest  of  this  fierce  and  acrid  sea. 

From  this  time  on  my  hermitage  will  be  of 
a  mild  and  temperate  kind.  The  guano- sifters 
and  I  will  be  on  the  friendliest  terms.  Not  a 
hundred  yards  away  from  my  own,  they  are 
building  for  themselves  a  home.  It  is  quite 
in  contrast  to  this  one  of  mine.  It  is  long 
and  narrow  and  is  made  of  rounded  slabs. 
Within  the  dwelling,  the  piled-up  sacks  of 

47 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

flour,  the  bags  of  beans,  the  boxes  of  candles, 
the  flitches  of  bacon  that  hang  from  the 
rafters,  and  the  pots,  pans  and  kettles,  and 
other  necessaries  of  life,  indicate  a  protracted 
stay. 

In  more  ways  than  one,  I  am  pleased  with 
my  new  companions.  Beside  the  natural  de 
sire  for  fellowship,  there  is  not  to  be  forgotten 
the  artistic  selfishness.  Men  are  often  but 
figures  to  the  landscape  painter,  and  as  it  is 
impossible  that  I  put  myself  into  my  own 
sketches,  even  were  that  feat  desirable,  I  have 
sadly  felt  the  want  of  flesh  and  blood.  Man 
was  needed  to  give  interest  to  these  waves 
and  stones.  Now  he  is  here.  These  figures 
are  perfect  accompaniments  to  these  island 
scenes.  They  are  as  much  in  harmony  with 
these  bird-haunted  rocks  as  are  the  samphire- 
gatherers  to  the  old-world  cliffs.  They  are  as 
valuable  to  me  as  the  beach-comber  is  to  the 
painter  of  marines,  or  as  the  charcoal  burner 
to  him  who  makes  pictures  of  the  oaks  and 
firs  of  some  forest  dell.  As  Dickens  uses  the 

48 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

bit  of  dreary  twilight  landscape  on  the  river 
Soane,  to  show  the  forlorn  and  desperate  con 
dition  of  the  execrable  Regaud,  or  as  the 
desolate  valley  is  made  by  Hugo  to  indicate 
the  arid  and  lonely  soul  of  Jean  Valjean, 
when,  after  he  has  committed  the  robbery  at 
the  house  of  his  benefactor,  the  good  bishop, 
Monsieur  Welcome,  he  sits  down  to  rest,  so  I 
can  use,  in  inverse  ratio,  these  men.  Emphasis 
they  give,  such  as  the  landscape  painter  loves. 
Take  the  present  moment.  Three  of  the 
sifters  are  engaged  in  the  task  of  passing 
through  sieves  and  putting  into  sacks  the 
ancient  bird  deposits.  Leaning  against  the 
wild  March  wind,  their  rustic  clothing  flapping 
in  as  wild  disorder,  and  a  cloud  of  the  brown, 
snuff-like  mineral  hovering  around  them,  or 
being  carried  by  the  fitful  gusts  far  beyond 
the  sieves,  the  men  make  extremely  pictur 
esque  figures.  One  of  the  sifters  will  dwell 
here  permanently.  I  expect  to  place  him 
into  many  a  future  sketch.  He  is  a  Hercules 
in  strength  and  of  brawny  stature.  He  moves 
from  place  to  place  all  unconscious,  and  of 

7 

49 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

course,  uncaring,  of  his  pictorial  value  to  me. 
Despite  the  season,  his  head  and  shoulders  are 
bare  to  the  sun  and  wind,  his  feet  are  encased 
in  coarse  brown  sacking;  and,  as  I  write,  he 
is,  with  that  exception,  naked.  He  is  carry 
ing  a  plank  to  a  couple  of  his  fellow  laborers, 
and  these  are  busy  at  work  on  the  recently 
stranded  boat.  His  yellow  hair,  his  ruddy 
flesh  tints  focus  a  picture  in  which  the  broken 
sloop,  the  big  black  schooner,  the  white  hull 
of  the  yacht,  the  turquoise  blue  waters  of  the 
Inland  Sea,  the  warm  gray  of  the  island  cliffs, 
with  the  reeling  clouds  above  them,  are  the 
splendid  components.  Only  to  realize  to  the 
full  the  effect  of  this  momentary  scene  upon 
the  mind,  the  describer  must  not  omit  the 
sounds.  Two  of  my  friends,  with  shouts  and 
halloos,  explore  a  corner  of  the  transformed 
bay.  There  is  a  clattering  of  hammers  made 
by  the  workmen  overhauling  the  wreck;  the 
dogs  bark  loud,  and  these  united  noises  bring 
shrill,  harsh  cries  from  the  island  sea-birds, 
and  these  are  answered  in  turn  by  a  loud  and 
indignant  cackle  from  the  sifter's  score  and 

50 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

two  of  newly-brought  and  astonished  barn 
yard  fowls. 

After  many  days,  we  have  just  seen  the 
island.  Like  life  itself,  an  island — to  be 
known—  needs  sometimes  to  be  seen  from 
without.  Hitherto,  I  have  seen  my  island  too 
near.  Gunnison,  like  many  another,  can  only 
be  known  rightly  by  an  encirclement  on  the 
water,  when  it  falls  somewhat  into  the  retro 
spect,  and  its  parts,  like  events  in  our  lives, 
are  not  out  of  proportion  through  the  law  of 
perspective.  To  appreciate  this  place  as  a 
piece  of  rude  and  sterile,  but  attractive  scen 
ery,  one  should  see  it  from  a  boat's  deck,  and 
at  a  considerable  distance  away  from  the  shore. 
Gunnison  exhibits  great  diversity  of  forms,  it 
contains  heterogeneous  material.  On  a  limited 
scale — its  shore  line  does  not  exceed  three  miles 
— it  has  miniature  crags,  bristling  cliffs,  sandy 
beaches,  walls,  pyramids,  stacks,  mounds,  old 
molars  of  rock,  fantastic  forms  innumerable. 
Of  my  neighboring  islands,  Strong's  Knob  is 
in  form,  perhaps,  the  boldest.  Fremont — 

51 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Disappointment — is  dominated  in  appearance 
by  its  castle-shaped  top.  The  name  of  Hat 
Island  suggests  its  form,  as  well  as  does  that 
of  Dolphin.  Carrington  lies  low  on  the  water 
and  appears  much  the  same  from  each  point 
of  the  compass.  The  sky  line  of  Stansbury's 
and  also  of  Church  are  quite  of  the  grandest. 
Gunnison  is  merely  a  rising,  a  peak  of  the 
partially  submerged  Desert  Range.  It  is  a 
mass  of  black  limestone,  with  longitudinal 
traversements  of  lava,  with  outer  croppings  of 
coarse  conglomerate.  It  has  no  such  tower, 
such  domes  as  Stanbury's,  no  rocks  like 
Church,  no  pebbles  like  Fremont,  but  in  com 
bination  it  outvies  them  all.  One  might  im 
agine  that  the  Gunnison  was  designed  to 
exemplify  the  sterner  principles  of  the  pic 
turesque. 

To  liken  the  profile  of  a  cliff  or  mountain 
to  that  of  a  couchant  lion  is  worse  than  trite. 
One  discards  the  commonplace  thought,  yet 
such  is  the  northern  cliff.  As  one  approaches 
the  upper  end  of  Gunnison  Island  from  the 

52 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

west,  the  leonine  image  is  strikingly  perfect. 
No  stretch  of  imagination  is  needed  to  piece 
out  the  fact.  There  lies  the  beast,  his  head 
to  the  north,  his  monstrous  paws  lying  on  the 
lower  shelves,  and  below  him  the  water  is  deep 
and  richly  blue.  "Detached  from  the  island, 
about  a  dozen  rods  or  so  away,  are  two  large 
masses  of  rock  and  these  are  known  as  The 
Cubs;  a  most  romantic  little  bay  separates 
the  pair,  and  their  presence  adds  very  mate 
rially  to  the  wildness  of  the  scene  around." 

As  the  Inland  Sea  contains  not  another 
island  that  is  half  as  picturesque  as  this  one, 
so  there  is  not  another  within  its  bounds  whose 
sombre  features  are  enlivened  by  such  a  mul 
titude  of  noisy  life.  In  the  season,  this  is  the 
most  frequented  mating  ground,  and  the  bays 
are  then  inhabited  by  crowds  of  screaming 
sea-fowl.  Erstwhile,  too,  the  island  was  the 
home  of  pelican  and  heron,  but  the  presence 
of  man  will  keep  those  shy  birds  away.  On 
the  tops  of  the  Sarcobatus  bushes  are  still  the 
deserted  last  year's  nests  of  the  herons,  and 
where  the  waters  of  East  Bay  suddenly  shallow 

53 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

upon  a  half-circle  beach  of  sand,  the  homes 
of  the  pelicans  were  made.  Here  the  gulls 
have  nested  for  ages,  nor  do  they  appear  dis 
posed,  now  that  man  has  appeared  on  the 
scene,  to  give  up  their  ancient  and  natural 
rights.  The  wary  pelicans,  whose  advance 
guards  have  been  flying  above  the  island  for 
several  days  past,  may  abandon  the  field,  but 
not  so  the  gulls.  On  Hat  Island — the  satellite 
of  Carrington — which  the  yacht  so  recently 
passed,  the  pelicans  are  now  congregated  by 
scores  and  hundreds.  They  have  found  a 
new  place  of  abode;  but  already  the  gulls  are 
taking  their  old  positions  to  nest,  and  they 
fill  each  nook  and  corner  of  this  disputed 
island  with  a  constant  and  increasing  din. 

No  doubt  but  that  the  fantastic  rocks 
jutting  from  the  edge  of  Gunnison;  its 
cliffs;  its  boulders,  round  as  cannon  balls;  its 
shining  sands,  may  be  duplicated  on  many  a 
seashore;  but  not  so  its  wild  background  of 
desert  and  mountain.  The  wind  that  sent  us 
along  was  a  sparkler,  and  the  changeful  pan 
orama  of  shifting  distances,  seen  thus  quickly, 

54 


IHE  INLAND  SEA 

showed  all  the  varieties  of  the  island  itself. 
One  thing  was  lacking,  and  that  was  the  flash 
of  a  rival  sail.  Far  as  the  eye  could  reach, 
not  a  sign  of  human  life  met  our  sight.  The 
island  huts,  and  the  busy  sifters  came  as  a 
welcome  change  to  the  otherwise  deserted 
shores. 

Hidden  Valley,  in  yonder  Wasatch,  is  the 
antipodes  of  my  present  home.  Two  deep 
canons  of  that  lofty  range  begin  on  the  side 
of  a  central  peak,  the  which  peak,  we  are  told 
by  those  learned  in  the  history  of  this  old 
world  of  ours,  was  once  a  veritable  island, 
first  to  rise  above  the  waves  of  the  primeval 
ocean,  of  all  these  western  heights.  Almost 
parallel  in  their  courses,  there  stands  between 
these  neighboring  passes  a  stupendous  bar 
rier  of  craggy  mountain  wall.  Leading  up 
to  peaks  still  higher,  and  set  like  watch-towers 
along  its  way,  are  winding  ridges,  with  knife- 
like  edges,  and  overlooking  wan  ravines,  all 
ragged  and  grizzly  with  thick- set  spears  of 
fractured  stone.  On  the  north  side  especially, 

55 


2HE  INLAND  SEA 

the  wall  is  exceedingly  grand.  From  time  to 
time  its  already  stupendous  strength  is  aug 
mented  by  mighty  bastions,  the  tops  of  which, 
seen  from  below,  appear  to  be  the  crests  of 
the  peaks  themselves.  To  be  exact,  however, 
there  are  two  rows  of  these  bastions,  one 
above  and  set  back  of  the  other,  so  that  be 
tween  the  tops  of  the  lower  row  and  the  base 
of  the  higher,  there  lies  a  long  narrow  space 
at  an  elevation  of  ten  thousand  feet.  This  is 
the  Hidden  Valley.  As  now,  I  turn  my  glass 
toward  the  heights  to  seek  the  outline  of 
familiar  walls,  so  when  there,  with  this  same 
glass,  I  made  out  amid  the  distant  waters  this 
desert  home.  Perhaps  a  sojourn,  a  summer 
passed  in  that  other  place — that  rocky  basin 
held  so  near  the  sky — was  a  fitting  prelude  to 
these  island  days. 

Hidden  Valley  has  a  secret  entrance.  Its 
narrow  doorway  is  between  two  boulders- 
huge  quartzite  monoliths,  that  like  worn-out 
sphinxes,  keep  watch  and  guard.  The  ap 
proach  to  Gunnison  is  across  the  broad  waters, 
open  on  every  side.  The  island  rocks  are 

56 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

marked  horizontally  by  the  waves  of  Bonne- 
ville,  those  of  the  valley  are  scratched  diagon 
ally  by  the  ancient  glaciers.  Here  I  have 
built  for  myself  a  hut,  and  there  I  have  lived 
in  a  cabin  taken  at  second  hand.  This  home 
is  of  stone,  that  one  of  unadzed  logs  with  the 
moss  and  ferns  between  them.  Here  I  wear 
a  track  for  my  feet,  there  the  fallen  pine-cone 
already  sprouted  on  the  unused  pathway 
Here  my  bed  is  of  blankets,  there  it  was  com 
posed  of  pine-tips,  luxurious  and  sweetly- 
perfumed  as  that  of  an  Eastern  King.  There 
I  thought  of  my  predecessors,  as  here  I  often 
wonder  who  my  successors  will  be.  The  brine 
which  surrounds  my  island  lies,  as  it  were,  in 
a  grave,  while  the  crystal  waters  of  the 
Hidden  Valley  are  held  by  the  lofty  mountains 
as  in  a  font.  Amid  a  grove  of  primeval  trees, 
surrounded  by  the  Wasatch  summits,  a  sanct 
uary  seemed  the  one;  a  threshold  seems  this 
other.  In  point  of  difference,  then,  there  was 
a  moral  as  well  as  a  physical  one. 


57 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

"Behold  a  sower  went  forth  to  sow;"  "The 
axe  shall  be  laid  at  the  root  of  the  tree;" 
"Those  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships." 
Unexpectedly,  and  by  the  sloop's  mishap,  I 
look  upon  one  of  the  subjects — the  wreck 
ashore— listed  for  the  English  sketcher  by  the 
Rev.  J.  G.  Wood,  M.  A.  Two  of  the  distinc 
tive  happenings  of  March,  however,  I  shall 
not  see — the  felling  of  timber,  and  the  sow 
ing  of  the  soil.  These  sights  may  be  indica 
tive  of  the  season's  inspirations  elsewhere, 
but  are  in  nowise  suggestive  of  those  on  this 
island.  Here  no  tree  makes  ready  to  burst 
into  leaf;  in  this  rocky  soil  reposes  no  seed  of 
food- bearing  grasses.  No  matter  how  fiercely 
the  winds  of  these  Vernal  storms  may  drive 
the  waves,  they  but  leave  bare  the  rocks  and 
sands,  without  casting  up  those  heaps  of  kelp 
and  tangle,  so  dear  to  the  sketched  eye. 

But  lately  I  stood 

"Upon  the  beached  verge  of  the  salt  flood." 

Even  to  the  bleak,  gray  rocks  at  Isle  of  Shoals, 
the  weeds  of  Atlantic  give  a  rich-toned  color. 

58 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

And  by  the  western  main  how  gorgeous  the 
reefs  and  ledges!  Skirt  my  island  as  oft  as  I 
will,  my  eyes  shall  see  no  such  beauties  as 
those.  What  to  nature  are  our  canons  of  art! 
Her  contrasts  are  often  most  violently  given. 
Such,  by  that  cast,  was  the  sunlit  grass,  the 
deep  blue  sky,  the  flaming  lines  of  the  golden 
poppies,  and  the  massed  verbenas  on  the  shin 
ing  dunes. 

"  'Tis  the  hard  gray  English  weather 
Breeds  the  hard  gray  Englishmen." 

If  I  am  to  be  contented  here,  I  must  forget 
those  things.  I  must  forget  how  the  scarlet 
star-fish  clung  to  the  granite,  the  wine-purple 
sea-urchin  lay  on  the  sands;  and  how  in  each 
rock-girt  pool,  the  sea-anemone  unfolded  its 
living  flowers.  It  will  not  do  to  remember, 
how,  when  the  tide  was  out,  I  teased  the  big, 
petulant  crabs,  gathered  the  tent -shaped 
limpet,  and  picked  up  the  geranium-leaf  shell 
and  the  Venus  Cradle;  did  a  hundred  child 
ish  things,  in  short,  until  I  was  sent  back  to 
land,  chased  by  wind,  and  rain  and  tide.  But 

59 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

everywhere  is  material  for  pleasure,  if  only  we 
see  aright. 

Carrion  of  some  kind  has  drifted  ashore. 
On  the  lesser  Cub,  the  ravens  are  busy  about 
it.  This  reminds  me  that  their  cousins,  the 
crows,  and  the  blackbirds,  too,  are  even  now 
disputing  with  the  island  gulls  for  spoil  in  the 
wake  of  the  plow.  Being  wingless,  I  cannot 
pass  as  do  these.  The  winged  marauders  are 
ever  passing  from  island  to  shore,  and  return 
ing  again  in  swift  unwearied  flight.  How 
bounteous  in  yonder  eastern  valleys  will  be 
the  season's  prime!  In  the  village  orchards, 
the  trees, — the  peach,  the  plum,  the  apple 
and  the  pear — will  cover  their  branches  with 
clouds  of  predictive  bloom.  The  village  chil 
dren  will  roam  the  uplands,  and  return  with 
garlands  of  woven  flowers.  On  the  Wasatch, 
too,  and  the  other  ranges,  what  wonders  there 
will  be.  What  great  star-dashes,  what  rhom 
boids,  what  circles,  what  wavering  belts  of 
brilliant  flowers!  There  will  be  Ranunculus, 
Saxifraga  and  Primula;  the  Rosacese,  Felices, 

60 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Lycopadicse;  all  the  bewildering  variety  of 
the  alpine  flora.  The  yet  unmelted  snows  in 
their  downward  course  will  lave  what  unseen 
gardens!  Not  a  glade  or  glen  but  shall  know 
its  tens  of  thousands.  Simply  a  matter  of  a 
few  thousand  feet,  and  what  a  change  is  there ! 
Where  one  flower  is  starved  to  death  another 
grows  in  opulence.  The  common  dog-rose, 
though  on  the  heights  the  bush  itself  is 
dwarfed  and  flattened  to  the  ground,  bears  a 
bloom  much  larger  than  on  the  lower  levels, 
and  richer  too,  is  its  sweet  perfume.  Upon 
the  heights  within  my  daily  sight,  will  come 
forth  the  flowers  of  myth  and  legend,  there 
will  grow  strange  western  bloom,  and  there 
the  wild  flowers  that  for  endless  generations 
have  been  dear  to  the  old  world  heart  and 
brain.  Cooled  by  the  crystal  rills,  warmed  by 
the  generous  sun,  the  mountains  will  break 
into  floral  joy.  In  the  Hidden  Valley  will 
grow  those  flowers,  the  descendants  of  others 
that  bloomed  upon  the  self  same  spot,  century 
beyond  century  of  the  past,  and  unseen  by 
human  eyes.  By  lake,  in  grove  and  glen,  will 

61 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

grow  the  columbines,  the  asters,  the  wan,  pale 
orchids,  the  golden  bunches  of  bright  ivesia. 
There  will  be  the  phlox,  the  troops  of  solemn 
Monk's  Hood,  the  waving  fields  of  blue  mer- 
tensias.  As  time  goes  on,  the  pale,  blanched 
hue  of  the  velvet  clematis  will  show  against 
the  deep-gold  shining  of  the  glacial  rocks,  and 
Parry's  Primula;  a  ne  plus  ultra  to  the  climber 
for  western  flowers  will  open  its  corolla  of 
crimson-purple  with  yellow  eye.  I  shall  have 
visions,  too,  of  those  grassy  meadows,  where 
comes  forth  that  erratic  flower  Dodecatheon 
Meadia;  variety  Alpinus — the  American  cow 
slip  or  shooting  star.  There  at  morn  from 
grass-hidden  larks  will  come  bubbles  of  melo 
dious  sound.  The  hermit  thrush  and  the 
purple-finch  will  utter  their  soft  love  warblings 
and  tender  calls.  Throughout  the  day  the 
hummer,  the  bee  and  the  butterfly,  will  make 
their  quest  together,  and  in  the  gloaming,  as 
Hesperus  hangs  above  the  craggy  walls,  the 
vesper  sparrow  will  sing  its  tuneful  song. 
"Aloft  the  mountain  lawn  is  dewy-dark, 
And  dewy-dark  aloft  the  mountain  pine." 

62 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

On  my  island,  the  vines  will  sprout,  I  hope;  a 
cactus  or  two  will  unfold  their  fleshy  blossoms, 
there  may  be  the  serrated  disc  of  a  desert 
primrose,  and  on  the  upper  rocks,  the  moss 
and  lichen  may  take  on,  perhaps,  a  brighter 
hue.  Here  I  shall  watch,  but  little  will  I  see. 
The  aged  artemesia  will  throw  out  new  shoots: 
there  may  be  a  thistle  here  and  there  among 
the  ledges,  and  I  may  find  some  hitherto 
unknown,  some  pungent  and  nameless  desert 
flower.  Here,  too,  the  grease-wood  will  send 
out  its  spiky  leaves,  the  salt- weed  come  up  by 
the  shore,  and  the  brush-grass  green  awhile 
the  slant  of  the  cliffs.  Hardly  enough,  this, 
to  satisfy  the  soul,  when  one  thinks  of  the 
exuberance  of  the  fields  and  woods  elsewhere, 
and  longs  to  see  the  full  miracle  of  the  spring's 
return. 

Yet  I  have  compensations.  Would  I  have 
come  hither,  and  would  I  remain  as  I  do,  did 
I  not  know  that  such  would  be  given?  Stans- 
bury  records  his  first  impressions  of  the  Inland 
Sea.  Not  so  showy  a  picture  as  some  others, 
but  still  enough.  He  was  surprised  to  find, 

63 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

although  so  near  a  body  of  the  saltest  water, 
none  of  that  invigorating  freshness  which  is 
always  experienced  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
ocean.  "The  bleak  and  naked  shores,"  he  goes 
on  to  say,  "without  a  single  tree  to  relieve  the 
eye,  presented  a  scene  so  different  from  that 
I  had  pictured  in  my  imagination,  that  my 
disappointment  was  extreme."  So  it  has  been 
with  me,  but  since  my  first  view  of  the  place, 
I  have  been  taught.  Spring  finds  out  this 
desolate  spot  as  surely  as  those  more  favored. 
I  shall  see  the  great  phenomena  of  nature, 
although  its  manifestations  may  be  affected 
by  local  conditions.  Here  March  as  well  de 
serves  the  name  which  the  old  Saxons  gave 
it— i.  e.,  noisy  month — as  along  the  English 
coast.  It  is  just  as  violent,  just  as  brusque, 
and  the  winds  bluster,  and  the  waves  dash, 
and  the  wild  clouds  send  their  shadows  career 
ing  across  sea  and  land.  The  interior  basin 
has  a  character  of  its  own,  and  nowhere  does 
it  show  more  strongly  than  here  where  I 
stand.  It  has  not,  it  may  be,  such  scenes  to 
show  as  where  the  gray,  Atlantic  frets  on  its 

64 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

shores,  or  where,  by  the  side  of  the  vast 
Pacific,  the  cypress  trees 

" spread  their  umbrage  broad 

And  brown  as  evening" 

I  shall  see  no  such  copious  falls  of  rain,  nor 
such  effects  as  when  those  western  mists  are 
being  dispelled  by  a  rising  sun,  and  floating 
away  in  diaphanous  veils  they  let  the  sun  pour 
down  his  rays,  hot  through  the  humid  atmos 
phere.  In  the  clear,  dry  air  above  the  Inland 
Sea,  the  vast,  white  cone  of  the  zodiacal  light 
streams  up  over  my  island  cliffs,  far  more 
brilliantly  in  the  twilight  than  it  does  through 
the  skies  of  Britain.  A  mighty  sign,  The 
Scales,  hangs  radiant  above  the  Wasatch  range. 
Like  a  wondrous  torch,  Venus,  beneficent  star, 
burns  amid  the  failing  glow,  and  unobscured 
by  fog  or  mist,  Orion,  in  golden  splendor, 
leads  his  dogs,  Sirius  and  Proycon,  beyond 
the  edge  of  the  solitary  desert. 

We  all  know  of  the  false  dawn.    It  is  seen 
more  fully  in  the  lands  of  the  East.    Here  at 

9 

65 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

the  beginning  of  March  was  that  effect  which 
might  fitly  be  termed  a  false  spring.  Up  in 
the  Hidden  Valley,  I  knew  of  approaching 
storm  by  the  moving,  the  soft  clashing  of 
those  green  and  silver  shields,  the  leaves  of 
the  aspen,  or  by  the  dog-fish  that  congregated 
in  groups  along  the  lake  shores,  their  black, 
ugly  muzzles  resting  on  some  sunken  log,  or 
crumbling  bit  of  shale,  staring  stupidly  up  at 
the  sky.  Here  a  wind,  treacherous  and  soft 
as  the  subtle  Vivian,  caressed  the  land;  and 
as  though  made  of  pearl  and  burnished  silver 
shone  the  passing  clouds.  Lovely  tints  of 
azure  and  green  lay  pale  on  the  placid  water, 
and  the  mountains,  like  vast  crumpled  fold 
ings  of  cream-colored  silk,  stood  shimmering 
along  the  horizon.  One  would  have  thought 
that  the  time  was  truth  itself.  Look  where 
one  would,  was  a  seeming  presence  of  spring. 
All  of  this;  yet  once  again  the  wild  March 
blizzards  come  sweeping  out  of  the  north.  To 
make  good  the  old  adage,  the  salt  spray  was 
whirled  across  the  island  from  side  to  side; 
the  wet  sleet  clung  to  the  face  of  the  rocks, 

66 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

the  waves  broke  seething  over  the  backs  of 
The  Cubs,  and  the  foam  leaped  half  way  up  the 
breast  of  The  Lion,  the  great  northern  cliff. 


67 


TEin&er  tbe  2>og  Star 


HI. 

tbe  2>o0  Star* 


My  days  of  trial  are  here.  The  King  of 
Suns,  the  mighty  Sirius,  the  fiery  Dog-  Star  of 
the  ancients,  rules  the  sky.  0  the  insufferable 
brightness!  0  the  glare  of  light  upon  the 
waters  of  the  Inland  Sea!  My  eyes  ache. 
Like  a  vast  mirror  of  polished  steel  gleams 
the  briny  surface;  and  across  it,  the  sun's  path 
is  like  that  same  steel  at  a  molten  heat. 
Asia,  Africa  —  where  could  this  not  be?  A 
wind  hot  as  the  sirocco  withers  the  scanty 
herbage.  My  brain  seethes.  Through  the 
smallest  aperture,  sun-arrows  pierce  into  the 
darkened  room.  In  the  tanks  the  water  yet 
keeps  pure,  but  I  grow  fearful  lest  too  quickly 
it  should  shrink  away.  These  are  the  days 
when  the  temper  becomes  uncertain,  when 

71 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

indolence  and  passion  hold  equal  sway.  Now 
the  heat  of  that  distant  sun  gathers  in  the 
veins,  and  the  blood  boils.  We  are  made  the 
playthings  of  combustion  taking  place  innu 
merable  miles  away.  Now  the  poet's  eye  is 
in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling;  the  musician  hears  the 
music  of  the  spheres.  Now  men  of  nobleness, 
en  rapport  with  stellar  fires,  are  roused  to  great 
achievements,  or  those  of  lower  instincts  are 
moved  to  deeds  of  crime.  Now,  when  too 
bitter  the  wormwood  in  the  cup  of  sorrow, 
one  must  cry  out  like  John  in  the  wilderness, 
or  the  delicate  brain  gives  way  to  madness  in 
the  fierce  disquiet  of  the  time. 

"The  heart- sick,"  says  Poe,  "avoid  distant 
prospects.  In  looking  from  the  summit  of  a 
mountain  one  cannot  help  feeling  abroad  in 
the  world.  Grandeur  in  any  of  its  moods,  but 
especially  in  that  of  extent,  startles,  excites 
—and  then  fatigues.  For  the  occasional 
scene,  nothing  can  be  better — for  the  constant 
view,  nothing  can  be  worse.  And  in  the  con 
stant  view,  the  most  objectional  phase  of 

72 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

grandeur  is  that  of  extent,  the  worst  phase 
of  extent  that  of  distance." 

And  the  words  of  Poe  are  true.  Unless  I 
fear  not  to  invite  the  pain  of  dejection,  I  keep 
away  from  the  peak.  I  have  discovered  that 
on  the  summit  of  the  cliff,  I  cannot  escape 
from  that  feeling  "abroad"  of  which  the 
poet  speaks.  Not  only  is  dejection  there 
invited,  but  also  is  added  thereunto  the  irony, 
as  it  were,  of  publicity.  There  my  feelings 
are  "at  war  with  the  sentiment  and  sense  of 
seclusion"  Strange  to  relate,  the  further  I 
see  from  my  place  of  exile,  the  more  unhappy 
I  grow.  Melancholy,  impossible  to  turn  aside, 
steals  over  me>t  sight  of  those  vast  stretches 
of  sullen  water  and  those  miles  of  arid  land. 
Nor  is  it  the  character  merely  of  the  sea  and 
landscape  that  works  the  depression;  its 
cause  takes  deeper  root  in  the  soul.  Standing 
in  the  crow's-nest  erected  by  Stansbury,  my 
island  lies  around  me  like  a  colossal  map  in 
relief.  Beyond  the  waters  are  the  endless 
mountains;  beyond  the  mountains,  the  open 

skies.    There  are  mountains  near,  and  moun- 
10 

73 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

tains  distant.  There  is  limitless  recurrence  of 
slope  and  peak  and  gorge.  Range  behind 
range  the  heights  culminate  in  level,  in  curve, 
and  dome,  or  in  jagged  saw-tooth  edge  along 
the  horizon.  A  hundred  miles  of  the  Wasatch 
mountains  occupy  but  a  fragment  of  the  vast 
circumference.  Westward  is  the  white,  trem 
ulous  line  of  the  awful  desert.  Vastness  and 
strangeness  are  the  view's  leading  features, 
and  worse  than  these  are  the  powers  of 
memory  and  assimilation.  To  the  inner  eye, 
this  enlarges  the  horizon  a  hundred  fold. 
Rather  than  be  a  slave  too  long  to  the  infinite 
in  the  finite,  one  tries  to  concentrate  his 
attention  upon  some  petty  object,  to  shrink 
into  one's  self  and  find  rest  for  a  moment  in 
anchoring  the  mind  to  some  near  rock  or 
shrub.  But  all  in  vain.  Instinctively,  as 
through  a  resistless  fascination,  the  gaze 
wanders  once  more.  No  rest,  no  ceasing. 
Again  one  looks  around  and  around,  across  and 
across  the  unfriendly  waters.  At  last,  against 
all  efforts  of  will,  a  plunge  into  the  deep, 
unfathomable,  the  alluring  and  dreadful  blue. 

74 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

"Is  it  the  climate?  Is  it  the  marvelous 
sky?"  Hugo  exclaimed  so,  when  he  learned 
of  the  death  of  Count  Bresson.  "A  brilliant 
and  a  joyous  sky  mocks  us!  Nature  in  her 
sad  aspect  resembles  us  and  consoles  us. 
Nature  when  radiant,  impassive,  serene,  mag 
nificent,  transplendent,  young  while  we  grow 
old,  smiling  while  we  are  sighing,  superb, 
inaccessible,  eternal,  contented  in  its  joyous- 
ness,  has  in  it  something  oppressive." 

"Hateful  is  the  dark-blue  sky, 
Vaulted  o'er  the  dark-blue  sea." 

In  the  laureate's  verse  we  catch  an  echo  of 
a  similar  strain.  "People,"  says  Amiel,  "talk 
of  the  temptation  to  crime  connected  with 
darkness,  but  the  dumb  sense  of  desolation 
which  is  often  the  product  of  the  most  brilli 
ant  moment  of  daylight,  must  not  be  forgotten 
either.  Man  feels  lost  and  bewildered,  a 
creature  forsaken  by  all  the  world." 

In  the  heart  of  these  crystal  days  there 
lurks  an  awful  thought.  Today  the  same  as 
yesterday;  that  like  the  day  before;  tomorrow 

75 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

but  to  carry  forward  the  monotony  of  pain. 
In  this  guise,  0  life  and  infinity,  you  are 
scarcely  to  be  borne. 

Bird-voices  grow  monotonous.  I  am  berated 
from  morning  till  night.  The  gulls  never  tire 
of  screaming  defiance.  Go  where  I  will,  they 
greet  me  with  cries  of  resentment.  Not  con 
tent  with  this,  they  wait  not  my  advent,  but 
come  uttering  querulous  calls  or  insulting 
notes  to  my  very  door.  It  is  painful  to  be  so 
very  unpopular.  Plainly,  the  sifters  and  I  act 
the  part  of  usurpers.  The  island  belongs  to 
the  gulls  by  the  right  of  inheritance.  They 
are  the  original  settlers,  the  ancient  possessors, 
and  fain  would  they  give  me  the  word  of 
ejectment.  What  shall  I  do?  The  birds  are 
not  unheedful  of  the  morsels  that  come  from 
my  table.  They  dart  for  whatever  I  throw  in 
the  air.  But  they  love  me,  alas!  none  the 
more.  With  that  enchantingly  graceful  wing- 
motion  of  theirs,  they  wheel  in  air,  keeping 
a  watchful  eye  upon  my  every  action.  Are 
their  throats  never  weary?  My  dogs  may 

76 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

bay  the  moon,  the  owl  on  the  cliff  may  scatter 
demoniac  laughter,  but  they  cannot  out-noise 
these  obstreperous  gulls.  For  the  third  part 
of  a  year  now,  I  have  listened  to  their  cease 
less  clamor.  Do  they  never  sleep?  Their 
cries  greet  the  dawn,  and  fail  not  at  eve. 
Neither  are  they  absent  at  noon  of  the  day, 
nor  at  mid  of  night.  Among  the  male  birds 
themselves  there  is  often  a  battle  royal,  and 
then  what  frenzied  accompaniment  of  wing- 
flashings  and  inarticulate  sounds  of  sexual  ire. 
There  are  duels  to  the  death.  Perhaps  it  is 
some  detail  of  natural  selection.  Perhaps  it 
is  some  young  lover  overcoming  the  old.  It 
may  be  two  young  lovers  contending  for  the 
fairest  of  gulls. 

"The  charms  for  which  (gulls)  strive  or  hopeless 
die." 

Or  it  may  be  a  struggle  that  may  yet 
involve  all  the  young  warriors  of  the  rival 
colonies.  The  birds  are  clanish.  The  males 
of  Bird-Rock  keep  a  jealous  eye  upon  those 
of  the  East,  and  those  again,  upon  those  of  the 

77 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

South,  and  South-East  Bays.  My  island  has  its 
Iliads,  too.  Perhaps  this  is  a  war  over  some 
winged  Helen,  or  it  may  be  that  some  Guin 
evere  of  the  gulls  has  been  false  to  her  lord. 
Often  the  males  may  be  seen  in  groups,  and 
then  I  try  to  pick  out  the  Agamemnon,  the 
Ajax,  the  injured  Menaulus,  or  mayhap,  the 
sage  Ulysses,  or  the  aged  Nestor  of  the 
convocation.  This  colony,  no  doubt,  is  as 
ancient  as  Tyre,  its  laws  unalterable  as  those 
of  the  Medes  and  Persians.  The  voices  can 
grow  plaintive,  too.  With  almost  human 
distinctness,  comes  at  times  the  sudden  and 
piercing  call,  H-e-l-p! — h-e-l-p! — h-e-l-p!  What 
a  wild  appeal!  In  the  dead  of  the  night,  now 
from  one  distant  corner  of  the  island,  now 
from  another,  and  each  and  every  time  with 
an  intensity  of  sound  as  from  a  soul  in  pain; 
one  might  fancy  that  the  spooks  were  abroad, 
or,  as  a  nearer  cry  is  followed  by  a  whispering 
sound,  like  voices  suppressed  in  expectation, 
that  some  evil  creatures  were  trying  to  lure 
one  toward  and  then  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 
But  it  is  only  the  birds. 

78 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Am  I  becoming  a  metaphysician?  Shall  I 
degenerate  to  a  belief  in  transmigration?  Or 
shall  I  preach  to  the  birds  as  did  St.  Francis 
of  Assizi?  There  is  delirium,  too,  in  these 
lustrous  nights  as  well  as  in  these  torrid  days. 
Too  closely  those  golden  meshes  of  shining 
orbs  seem  to  wrap  around  one;  too  multi 
tudinous,  they  reflect  in  the  shining  wave. 
Those  creatures,  whose  forms  are  ever  in  my 
sight,  whose  voices  are  ever  in  my  ears,  are 
they  other  than  kindred  transformed?  How 
like  the  ways  of  the  world  are  the  ways  of 
these  feathered  citizens!  How  like  the  ways 
of  the  world  is  their  senseless  jeering.  What 
possible  use  is  there  in  such  a  blind  deridence? 
Yet  to  be  thus  hated  and  feared  must  work 
its  effect.  In  this  colony  of  birds  as  in  a 
village  of  men,  one  feels  the  weight  of 
continual  disdain.  After  all  comes  the  ques 
tion — Is  it  a  difference,  or  is  it  a  degree? 
Poor  birds!  shall  I  mock  at  their  ways,  at 
their  loves,  or  their  wrangles?  at  such  pleas 
ures  and  fears  as  they  foolishly  know? 

But  a  month  since,  and  the  downy  young 

79 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

gulls  were  my  best  of  friends.  As  I  lay  on  the 
sands,  they  would  come  chirping  toward  me. 
Often  has  the  lapel  of  my  open  coat  sheltered 
the  little  chicks,  and  in  the  tunnel  of  my 
sleeve  they  would  creep  and  hide.  On  a 
time,  they  have  nestled  in  perfect  confidence 
against  my  hand,  my  cheek,  or  my  hair. 
Unlike  the  queer  little  herons,  ridiculous 
younglings  of  poetic  parents,  the  infant  gulls 
have  shown  neither  spite  nor  fear.  I  have 
known  and  loved  these  birds  from  the  egg. 
Are  there  not  among  them  those  whose  lives  I 
have  saved?  Have  I  not  rescued  them  from 
the  waters  of  the  briny  sea?  When  faint  and 
weary  they  could  no  longer  struggle  against 
the  wave  that  engulfed  them,  I  have  lifted 
them  forth  and  returned  them  to  the  shelter 
of  the  mother's  wing.  But  now  they  are 
fearful;  they  are  filled  with  a  dark  mistrust. 
Already,  they  watch  and  cower  in  my  presence, 
or,  with  soft  plaintive  cry  and  faint  flutter  of 
half-fledged  wings,  run  in  crowds  on  the  sands 
before  me.  When  guided  into  some  cul  du  sac 
of  the  cliffs,  there  is  something  uncanny 


THE  INLAND  SEA 
and  disturbing  in  the  stare  of  their  yellow 


"Thanka.     What's  the  matter  you  dissentious 
rogues?" 

Why,  you  distracted  parents,  put  you  to  my 
nocturnal  wanderings,  this  frightful  din? 
Think  you  that  I  am  a  keeper  in  the  limbo 
for  birds?  Scream  your  loudest;  as  regards 
to  me,  your  progeny  is  safe.  How  like  a 
white,  fallen  cloud  appear  your  hosts  on  the 
starlit  water!  Or,  indeed,  as  I  retrace  my 
steps  to  the  hut,  I  could  think  you,  as  slowly 
again  you  approach  the  shore,  a  fleet  of  fairy 
gondolas,  messengers  from  an  unknown  land. 

"Latet  anguis  in  herba"  Yes,  that  is  true. 
In  the  grass  is  the  snake,  but  here  my  foes 
come  out  of  the  dust.  Of  what  avail  then, 
this  girdle  of  waters,  this  remoteness  from 
men?  Nowhere  shall  one  escape  his  portion 
of  dole.  The  fanged  and  deadly  rattlesnake, 
I  have  seen  it  on  yonder  land,  and  its  young, 

too.      Like    the  infant  viper,   described    by 
11 

81 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

White,  the  offspring  of  evil  raised  its  tiny 
head,  and  although,  perhaps,  as  yet  unarmed 
with  poison,  gave  me  proof,  not  unheeded, 
that  it  sensed  its  natural  weapon.  And  these 
foes  on  my  island,  too,  they  are  quick  to 
strike. 

A  coup  de  soleil— why  not?  The  thunder 
mutters;  the  giant  cumeli  dazzle  the  eyes 
with  the  light  upon  them.  They  come,  they 
grow,  they  melt  in  the  sultry  air.  Afar  in 
the  land  is  the  quiver  of  diffused  lightnings, 
or  the  jagged  bolt  strikes  to  the  earth 
without  rain.  Dark  from  excess  of  bright 
ness,  the  denuded  mountains  take  on  that 
solemn  hue  which  tells  of  middle  summer. 
What  Libyan  days  are  these?  Why  falls  not 
the  moisture  from  yonder  heaven?  0,  the 
too-conscious  me — the  troublesome  I!  Can 
one  meet  this  and  be  sane?  Blaze  forth,  0 
sun!  Scorch  with  thy  beams  this  shadeless 
isle,  make  flash  again  this  shining  sea!  The 
seismic  forces  are  troubled  in  their  sleep. 
Blaze  forth,  0  sun — in  a  million  wombs,  life 

82 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

quickens  to  action,  in  countless  graves,  the 
dead  decay!  In  this  silence  is  every  sound — 
the  dirge,  the  rhapsody,  the  fantasia,  the  song 
of  hope.  In  the  heart-furnace  0  sun,  the 
fever  is  high  as  thine! 

This  morning  the  first  thing  which  I  saw,  as 
I  awoke  in  my  hammock,  was  a  half-grown 
scorpion.  As  the  villainous  creature  passed 
across  a  corner  of  my  bamboo  pillow,  and  but 
a  few  inches  away  from  my  face,  the  sight 
was  unexpected  and  a  somewhat  startling  one. 
Yesterday,  one  of  the  same  objectionable 
neighbors  climbed  to  a  place  at  the  board.  A 
wicked-appearing  scamp  he  was,  as  he  after 
wards  lay,  a  prisoner  and  with  sting  erected, 
at  the  bottom  of  a  china  bowl.  I  have  de 
cided  on  a  scorpion  hunt.  The  guano-sifters 
will  join  in  the  sport.  They  have  received 
similar  visits  to  mine,  and  our  brotherhood 
sympathies  with  the  natural  owners  of  this 
island  do  not  lead  so  far  as  to  make  us  risk  a 
poisonous  stab  in  the  dark.  It  is  remarkable, 
the  number  of  lizards  that  have  so  quickly 

83 


IRE  INLAND  SEA 

appeared.  Among  the  volcanic  rocks,  so 
hot  these  days  that  they  blister  the  hand  if 
touched,  they  absorb  comfort  and  happiness, 
and  everywhere  their  erratic  tracks  make 
hieroglyphics  upon  the  burning  sands.  The 
air,  too,  and  the  water  are  filled  with  the 
ministers  of  torment.  An  incredible  number 
of  gnats  infest  the  shore,  and  where  a  few 
stunted  bushes  stand  near  the  water's  edge, 
they  are  covered  thick  with  a  veil  of  cobwebs; 
the  big,  fat  spiders  making  the  beach  there  a 
place  to  be  avoided.  These  meridian  days 
make  hard  indeed  my  island  hermitage. 

Thirst!  This  sea  would  let  one  die  of 
thirst.  But  little  succor  would  be  found  in 
e  small  condensing  apparatus  which  fore- 
.ought  made  me  bring.  "Ropy,"  this  is  the 
description  my  companions  give  of  the  water 
supply  in  their  barrels.  What  of  my  tanks? 
'Tis  a  timely  reminder.  A  little  charcoal  will 
do  them  no  harm,  I  will  try  my  skill  as  a 
burner.  I've  a  stranded  cedar,  and  some 
Gunnison  clay  will  do  the  rest. 

84 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Just  after  my  first  cruise  on  the  Inland  Sea, 
a  boat  containing  one  person  was  wrecked  on 
the  lower  west  shore  of  Antelope  Island.  I 
recall  his  experience  as  a  what-might-be. 
The  man  who  was  thrown  on  Antelope  Island 
was  an  expert  sailor,  so  it  was  said,  and  one 
who  should  not  have  met  with  mischance. 
Starting  alone,  from  the  resort  at  Garfield 
Beach,  to  cross  the  southern  end  of  the  sea 
to  a  landing  place  on  the  eastern  shore, 
adverse  winds  carried  him  too  far  to  the 
north.  In  the  darkness,  for  the  trip  was  a 
night  one,  the  winds  having  increased  until 
the  boat  was  beyond  his  control,  it  was  driven 
upon  the  rocks,  where  the  waves  soon  tore  it 
apart.  Not  knowing  the  island  to  be  inhabited 
— on  its  eastern  side — the  unfortunate  voyager 
was  in  a  sorry  plight.  He  passed  the  follow 
ing  day  after  the  wreck  in  searching  for 
water  along  the  western  shore;  a  shore  where 
not  a  drop  of  fresh  water  is  to  be  found.  By 
the  merest  chance,  he  was  rescued  from  a 
painful  death,  not  on  the  first  day,  however, 
but  on  the  second,  when  he  was  in  an 

85 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

exhausted  and  delirious  condition.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  depredations  of  a  wild  beast,  the 
man  would  probably  not  have  escaped  at  all. 
A  wild  cat  had  committed  repeated  trespass 
upon  the  poultry  of  the  Island  Farm,  and  a 
couple  of  young  men  were  in  quest  of  the 
thief.  Their  astonishment  at  finding  an 
unknown  man — a  cast-away — lying  alone  on 
the  hills,  apparently  in  a  dying  condition,  was 
as  great  as  their  appearance  upon  the  scene 
was  fortunate. 

Once  a  flock  of  sheep  perished  of  thirst  on 
the  Fremont  Island.  That  place,  at  certain 
times  of  the  year,  bears  an  abundance  of  rich, 
sweet  bunch-grass,  and  the  sheep  had  been 
left  there  for  their  winter  pasturage.  The 
poor  sheep,  victims  of  the  short-sightedness 
of  their  careless  shepherd,  died  the  death 
which  the  man  escaped.  There  is  a  spring  on 
the  island,  or  at  times  there  is,  that  flows 
forth  from  the  rocks  beneath  a  steep  bank  on 
the  northern  shore.  The  change  in  the  sea's 
surface  varies  at  times,  and  the  spring  is 
sometimes  buried  beneath  the  waves.  On 

86 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

this  occasion,  such  a  rise  had  mingled  the 
fresh  waters  with  those  of  the  brine.  "In 
the  agony  of  thirst,"  said  the  one  who  told 
me  the  tale,  "the  poor  creatures  pawed  furi 
ously  at  the  barren  shingle,  fresh  victims 
continually  being  added  to  the  number  of 
dead  already  lying  around  the  spot."  With 
throat  parched  and  burning,  my  companion 
and  I  could  well  sympathize  with  the  tortured 
animals.  Seeing  that  our  own  quest  for 
water  was  fruitless  here,  we  hurried  again  to 
our  boat,  and  rowed  to  the  nearest  water  that 
we  knew  of,  that  of  a  spring  near  Promontory. 

Generous  boon!  My  place  of  refuge  is  in 
my  tub.  I  enjoy  to  the  full  the  delights  of 
the  bath.  When  on  land  it  seems  that  one 
must  suffocate,  that  in  the  intolerable  noon 
the  rocks  must  melt,  there  is  comfort  in  the 
cooling  wave.  Even  the  iron  strength  of  the 
brawny  sifter  does  not  prevent  his  desire  to 
become  amphibious.  Like  myself,  he  lives  as 
much  in  the  water  as  he  does  on  the  land. 
What  a  great  sanitarium  this  sea  must  become! 

87 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Let  the  sun  scorch  never  so;  let  the  acrid 
waters  shrink  up  the  grass  and  the  herbage; 
let  it  breed  the  gnat  or  strew  the  beach  with 
larvae;  yet  in  it  there  is  renewed  strength,  a 
tonic  for  mind  and  body.  To  the  tired  limbs, 
it  brings  a  rest,  and  to  the  wearied  brain, 
repose. 

And  here  is  my  tub:  distant  from  the  hut 
some  five  hundred  yards  or  so,  at  the  base  of 
a  square  piece  of  masonry,  an  abutment  of 
the  northern  cliff,  where,  when  the  sea  is 
rough,  and  the  wind  from  the  north,  the 
eddies  swirl,  there  is  worn  in  the  rock  a 
smooth,  round  basin.  Other  basins  of  a 
similar  kind  are  to  be  found  along  the  shore, 
but  this  one  remains  my  favorite  still.  It  is 
some  twenty-five  feet  across,  and  about  five 
feet  deep,  and  the  bottom  is  covered  with  a 
layer  of  white  and  shining  sand. 

A  delicious  place,  one  that  annuls  the 
physical  sufferings  of  these  trying  days. 
There  I  go,  and  there  I  sport  at  my  ease. 
The  strong  brine  of  the  sea  has  a  tendency 
to  float  one's  limbs  to  the  surface,  so  that  the 

88 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

sensation  produced  when  one  is  in  the  water 
is  always  as  novel  as  pleasant.  When  the 
sea  is  in  anywise  calm,  it  is  an  easy  matter  to 
recline  thus  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time; 
but  when  the  sea  is  rough,  it  is  very  difficult 
to  make  headway  against  the  smallest  of 
waves. 

Boyton,  the  swimmer,  learned  this.  His 
exhibition  of  skill  at  Garfield  Beach,  on  June 
12,  1886,  was  a  most  signal  failure.  The 
waves  knocked  him  about  at  their  will.  Of 
all  his  aquatic  adventures,  the  one  most 
thrilling,  so  he  afterwards  declared,  was  that 
on  the  Inland  Sea. 

I  am  in  my  tub.  Somnolence  broods  wide 
over  land  and  sea.  The  hot  air  swoons.  The 
motionless  water  lies  pale  and  unsullied.  Not 
a  troublesome  gnat  is  abroad  from  the  shore. 
The  gulls,  whom  I  disturbed  as  I  walked 
through  their  colony,  have  sunk  back  to  their 
nests.  Some  ten  score  or  more  of  the  startled 
birds  who  took  flight  to  the  bay,  now  float 
with  head  below  wing.  A  pair  of  lizards  come 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

out  from  under  a  stone,  and,  sleeping,  bask  on 
the  sands. 

Across  the  distance,  there  comes  a  change. 
The  horizon  is  melted  away;  the  mountains 
are  blurred.  The  farther  chains  appear  to 
part,  to  become  peaked  islands.  The  sky 
seems  water,  the  water,  sky.  Substance  and 
shadow  are  indistinguishable.  Do  I  wake  or 
dream? — it  is  the  beginning  of  a  noon-day 
mirage. 


90 


IDofce  of  tbe  Swan 


IV. 

Doice  of  tbe  Swan 

The  late  October!  The  Moon  of  Harvest 
has  supplanted  the  Moon  of  Fire.  For  more 
than  a  month  huge  smoke- columns  stood  along 
the  horizon,  and  by  night  across  the  waters 
was  reflected  a  dull,  red  glow.  It  was  the 
evidence  of  conflagration  among  the  moun 
tain  oaks  and  pines.  Now  on  my  island  the 
tall,  coarse  grasses,  scorched  stiff  by  the  past 
heat,  are  whitened  each  morning  with  a  heavy 
rime.  Long  since,  the  old  and  the  gray- 
winged  gulls  have  flown.  There  is  silence 
around,  but  from  the  sky  there  falls,  softened 
by  distance,  the  dissonant  clang  of  migrating 
geese,  and  once  I  heard,  a  sound  to  stir  the 
blood  as  one  listened,  the  long,  rich  call  of  the 
southward-flying  swan. 

93 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

With  shortened  days  and  a  lowered  temper 
ature,  there  has  been  ushered  in  a  subdued 
and  gloomy  splendor.  Its  full  emblazon  of 
effect  is  not  made  by  local  color,  but  comes 
as  much  and  more  from  a  low  and  autumnal 
sun.  From  the  affluence  of  the  heavens  there 
comes  a  transfiguration.  Always,  there  are 
the  same  great  stretches  of  water,  always  the 
same  monotonous  and  dreary  hills,  ever  the 
same  strange  walls  of  the  far-off  desert,  and 
ever  the  same  clustered  multitude  of  mountain 
peaks.  But  how  the  seasons  and  the  great 
sun  play  with  them!  They  are  ever  the 
same,  yet  never  the  same,  eternal  yet  evan 
escent,  playmates  with  time  and  with  the 
elements. 

There  are  days  and  there  are  days.  Either 
it  is  magnificent  cloud-scapes  over  hurried 
waters  and  driven  foam,  or  else  it  is,  as  now, 
the  deep  painting  of  tranquil  skies  and  their 
reflection  in  the  Inland  Sea.  With  September's 
coming,  a  mighty  drowsiness  fell  over  the  land. 
Again  my  island  appeared  to  have  shifted  its 
latitude  and  floated  to  another  clime.  Through 

94 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

my  glass,  I  brought  near  such  especial  spots 
of  brightness  as  attracted  the  eye,  and  found 
them  to  be  some  lonely  oak- clump  or  some 
spring- fed  maple.  Ruddy  indeed,  like  a  weary 
and  belated  sun,  rose  the  autumn  moon,  and 
like  a  vast  Koh-i-noor,  the  sun  itself,  big  and 
yellow,  marked  the  course  of  the  year.  Haze- 
enwrapped  were  the  Wasatch  and  the  fair 
Onaqui.  Through  deepening  shades  of  a  sad 
dened  violet,  the  Oquirrhs  had  lapsed  into 
melancholia.  The  jutting  headlands,  the 
nearer  islands,  appeared  as  if  cut  from  dim, 
orange  crepe,  or  maroon-colored  velvet,  and 
greenish-gray  shadows  lay  wan  in  cleft  and 
ravine.  Even  on  my  island,  the  frost  found 
some  leaves  to  transform,  and  made  fiery  spots 
along  its  deserted  shores. 

One  more  turn  and  the  present  richness  of 
the  time  will  be  gone.  This  second  effect  of 
autumn,  with  all  its  wonderful  depth  and 
sumptuousness  of  blended  color,  is  of  short 
duration.  It  marks  the  time  between  the 
heavy  sensuousness,  the  lassitude  of  the 

95 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

so-called  Indian  Summer,  and  those  days  of 
November  when, — 

" the  far  mountains  wax  a  little  hoary y 

And  clap  a  white  cap  on  their  mantles  blue" 

It  is  to  the  season,  as  is  the  mildness  of  the 
twilight  hour.  Had  J.  B.  Pyne,  the  old  English 
landscape  painter  and  theorist,  been  here  in 
September,  he  could  have  seen  around  him,  on 
gigantic  scale,  his  five  triangled  star.  Here 
was  an  exemplification  of  his  scheme  of  rela 
tionship,  opposition,  and  subordination  of 
color.  The  full  chromatic  scale  was  given. 
There  were  the  grouped  triads  of  primaries, 
secondaries,  tertiaries  and  quadrates.  The 
whole  scene  glowed,  though  subdued  with 
distance.  Among  the  foliage,  all  the  hues  had 
come,  excepting,  of  course,  the  blue,  and  that 
was  supplied  by  the  deeps  of  the  sky.  There 
were  the  red,  the  yellow,  the  blue;  there,  also, 
the  orange,  the  green  and  the  purple,  and 
these  were  shot  through,  in  nature's  warp, 
with  the  citrines,  the  russets  and  olives. 
From  this  spot,  I  watched  the  spring  climbing 

96 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

the  heights,  and  now  I  have  seen  the  autumn 
come,  as  it  were,  from  above.  The  season  is 
much  more  advanced,  of  course,  upon  the 
mountain  tops,  than  it  is  upon  this,  or  the 
other  low-lying  islands.  One  peculiarity  of 
my  position  here,  was  to  find  myself  within  a 
circle  of  changing  colors,  to  see  the  whole 
distant  landscape  smolder  with  undertones, 
and  here  and  there  the  ruddy  flames  burst 
forth.  To  see  the  foliage  turn  its  hue  in  an 
hour,  and  to  watch  the  circle  of  frost-made 
colors  ever  expanding  downward  and  around, 
kindling  now  the  chaparral  on  some  highest 
hill  top,  and  then  another;  crowding  through 
the  canons,  those  ways  of  the  hills,  until  it 
invaded  the  lower  valleys  and  paused  at  the 
water's  edge. 

Contrasted  with  the  foothills  of  the  Alle- 
ghany,  or  even  with  the  seaward  slopes  of 
the  Sierra  Nevada,  how  barren  are  these 
interior  bench-lands!  I  miss  the  huge  old 
beech  trees  of  the  east;  the  hemlocks  and 
the  tamarack,  or,  in  lieu  of  these,  the  live 

13 

97 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

oaks    that    fret    with    their    roundness    the 
western  slopes. 

Yet  noble  is  the  scene  these  mountains  show; 
The  groves  of  spruce  and  fir  hang  high  in  air, 
Deep  and  firm-rooted  on  the  great  cliffs  where 
Steeply  they  lean  remote. 

For  it  is  in  the  canons,  or  in  the  steep 
ravines,  or  hidden  among  the  canon  heads, 
that  the  natural  foliage  of  these  mountains 
is  found.  Up  in  the  hollows  a  wonderful 
sight  may  be  seen,  it  is  the  frost-stricken 
leaves  of  the  aspens.  Nothing  of  autumn 
could  be  more  lovely  than  these.  Seen  in  the 
groves,  each  tree  is  perfect — a  picture  in 
itself.  The  eye  there  takes  cognizance  of 
each  silver-green  shaft,  each  erratic  branch, 
and  each  separate,  amber-gold  leaf,  as  it 
quivers  against  the  dark  background  of  sub- 
alpine  fir.  But  now  I  view  from  the  synthetic 
standpoint.  Soon  all  that  brilliance  will  be 
stripped  from  the  trees  and  made  sodden 
upon  the  ground.  The  rocks  at  the  caSon 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

mouths  will  be  covered  a  foot  thick  with  the 
fallen  leaves. 

"Girds  with  one  flame  the  countless  host" 

Emerson's  line  might  apply  to  autumn.  The 
Father  of  American  verse  was  an  autumn  lover, 
as  indeed  were  all  of  the  New  England  poets. 
Eliminate  from  the  pages  of  the  most  noted 
authors  in  prose  and  verse,  those  passages 
referring  to  the  season  of  haze  and  color,  and 
what  a  loss  were  there!  It  would  take  away 
much  that  is  most  pleasing  and  original  in 
the  national  literature.  It  was  the  pictures 
of  autumn,  too,  that  first  made  American 
landscape  art  noticed  across  the  seas.  "It 
would  be  easy  by  a  process  of  word-daubing/' 
says  Hawthorne,  "to  set  down  a  confused  group 
of  gorgeous  colors,  but  there  is  nothing  of  the 
reality  in  the  glare  which  would  be  thus 
produced.  They  seem — the  trees — to  be 
some  kindred  to  the  crimson  and  gold  clad 
islands.  In  its  absence  one  doubts  whether 
there  be  any  truth  in  what  poets  have  told 
about  the  splendors  of  the  American  autumn, 

99 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

but  when  the  charm  is  added,  one  feels  that 
the  effect  is  beyond  description." 

And  o'er  the  purplish,  brownish,  sensuous  tone 
Qf  distant  woods,  is  dashed  a  dusky  gold. 

All  the  glories  of  the  sunset  skies  seem  fallen 
upon  the  trees.  There  are  the  purple,  the 
crimson,  the  scarlet  and  the  gold,  all  the 
colors  that  burn  upon  the  far-away  clouds. 
Indeed,  we  touch  them  with  our  hands;  but, 
ah!  it  must  be  confessed,  no  longer  making  us 
think  of  the  raiment  of  the  cherubim,  but 
rather  of  the  earthly  robes  of  queens  and 
kings.  I  love  to  see  the  sun  send  its  rays 
parallel  down  some  tree- crowded  ravine  and 
fill  the  leaves  with  a  splendid  light.  But  quite 
as  well  I  love  to  see  the  far  spirituality  of 
color,  and  the  autumnal  procession  of  radiant 
clouds. 

The  sea  is  much  shrunken.  Not  even  the 
last  long  fall  of  rain  has  lifted  its  surface  to 
the  normal  level.  Sand-bars,  long  and  narrow, 
lace  the  shallow  brine.  Strong's  Knob  is  now 

100 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

not  an  island,  but  a  sand-girdled  cape.  Church 
Island  and  Stansbury,  and  Black  Rock,  too, 
are  all  joined  by  natural  causeways  to  the 
land  on  the  south.  Gunnison  stands  in  the 
deepest  water,  still  its  reefs  stretch  out 
farther  than  usual,  and  its  outline  of  shore 
is  affected  as  is  an  ocean  island  by  a  fall  of 
the  tidet  Along  the  desert  shore,  the  quiet 
fluid,  green  and  transparent  today,  appears 
more  like  a  plain  of  ice,  than  it  does  like  a 
surface  of  water.  Once  it  was  thought  that 
the  Inland  Sea  was  drained  of  its  surplus 
waters — that  furnished  by  rains  and  the  in 
coming  streams — through  a  subterranean 
outlet,  and  many  were  the  stories  told — 
among  them  the  fabulous  ones  of  the  Baron 
La  Hontan  time — of  the  frightful  whirlpool 
the  escaping  waters  made.  The  outlet  of 
Bonneville  was  at  Red  Rock  Pass.  But  it  is 
evaporation,  and  the  lessened  streams,  irriga 
tion,  and  the  months  of  drought,  that  sink  the 
surface  of  the  Inland  Sea.  Usually,  its  rise 
and  fall  is  twenty  inches  or  less,  but  some 
times  the  change  is  of  several  feet. 

101 


THE  INLAND  StiA 

Many  days  must  the  clouds  discharge,  the 
torrents  roar,  ere  the  time  of  the  rising  come. 
The  Wasatch,  the  Oquirrh,  the  Onaqui,  and 
the  still  more  distant  and  unseen  Uintas,  must 
send  down  their  tributes  of  augmented 
streams.  Attracted  toward  one  after  another 
of  the  great  ranges — as  towards  a  magnet 
— the  clouds  must  drift,  the  rain  must  feed 
the  lakes,  the  lakes  must  supply  the  torrents, 
and  these  again  the  waters  of  the  rivers. 
Through  canon  and  valley,  the  streams  must 
come  until  they  find  in  this  sea  a  bitter 
grave.  Not  one  of  these  rivers  whose  moun 
tain  cradles  I  have  not  seen.  Under  ridges  of 
iron-gray  stone;  by  banks  and  slopes  of 
crumbling  shale;  through  narrow  gates,  giv 
ing  scarce  room  for  the  infant  stream  and 
the  mountain  trail;  by  isolated  peaks,  girt 
with  rocky  belts,  or  misty  with  groves  of 
pine;  beneath  strangely  twisted  mountains, 
broken  with  craggy  glens,  and  by  rough  saw 
mills,  noisy  with  hum  of  whirling  saw,  and 
exhaling  the  smell  of  new-cut  logs — through 
such  scenes  I  picture  the  waters  come.  I  see 

109 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

them  in  sad,  bleak,  hollows — storm-broken 
fragments  huddled  along  their  sides  and 
dizzily  poised  as  ready  for  instant  fall;  I  see 
them  plunge  down  the  mighty  slopes, 

Where  the  bald-eagle,  dweller  mid  the  scene, 
With  ruffled  breast  and  wings  aslant,  serene, 
Rises  to  meet  the  storm, 

and  where,  in  dizzy  swiftness,  they  tear  across 
smooth  slabs  of  granite,  or  are  themselves  in 
turn  overhung  by  time-worn  boulders  of 
colossal  size.  I  see  them  where  they  wind 
peaceful  and  quiet  by  the  side  of  field  and 
meadow,  or  once  again,  where  the  silence 
is  broken  only  by  voice  of  the  village  urchin, 
calling  to  his  companion,  as  he  fishes  in  the 
darksome  pools,  or  where  the  stillness  is 
broken  only  by  the  tinkle  of  cow-bells,  or 
sounds  of  rural  labor — the  Weber,  the  Bear, 
Timpanogas,  (Provo)  and  all  the  rest  of  them. 

The  Month  of  Vintage— the  Month  of 
Wine?  how  flows  the  juice  of  the  grape,  now 
is  gathered  the  fruit  of  the  vine.  After 

103 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

sheaves  of  wheat  comes  the  Harvest  Home, 
and  after  toil  comes  the  purple  clusters  and 
the  Vintage  Song.  Sursum  corda — keep  up 
your  courage,  say  I.  A  homesteader's  vines, 
like  a  homesteader's  heart,  should  be  filled 
with  hope.  From  my  father,  I  have  inherited 
these — a  love  for  an  island,  and  a  love  for  the 
vine.  Two  good  reasons,  it  appears  to  me,  why 
in  my  present  venture  I  may  hope  to  succeed. 
Who  knows!  Let  me  endure;  let  me  hold 
on  to  my  thought  to  a  consummation!  Per 
haps  the  grapes  in  purple  clusters,  shall  yet 
hang  thickly  on  these  trelliced  squares,  per 
haps  the  leaves  will  fret  with  their  green 
ness  these  slopes  and  walls.  "From  the  sand 
lands,"  says  Ruskin,  "come  a  high  intellect  and 
a  religious  art,  from  the  vine- lands  come  the 
highest  intellect  and  a  perfect  art."  What  a 
promise  is  there!  Sands  on  the  beach,  and 
vines  on  the  slope;  these  days  with  their 
sheen  give  brave  thoughts  of  the  future. 
May  these  rocks  themselves  yet  be  christened 
with  their  own  yielding  of  wine!  If  the  will 
can  accomplish — then  it  shall  be  so. 

104 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

A  goodly  harvest  the  sifters  have  gathered. 
The  coarse  brown  sacks  are  piled  on  the  shore. 
The  workmen  await  the  schooner's  coming; 
but  in  my  vineyard  no  gathering  is  seen.  The 
work  of  redemption  is  a  work  that  proves 
slow.  It  is  easier  to  gather  than  it  is  to 
create.  The  trenches  and  pits,  the  embank 
ments,  that  the  labor  of  my  neighbors  has 
made,  causes  that  part  of  the  island  to  appear 
like  a  fortified  camp.  The  workmen  through 
these  latter  weeks  have  encroached  their 
lines  upon  the  gull  metropolis.  A  destiny  is 
manifest.  Struggle  as  valiantly  as  they  may, 
the  poor  birds  must  yield  to  their  fate.  Be 
fore  the  energy  of  the  human  being,  they 
must,  as  all  things  else,  give  way,  and  in  the 
future  the  place  that  has  known  them  so  long 
shall  know  them  no  more. 

My  vineyard  follows  the  island's  natural  lines. 
Above  the  present  beach,  a  series  of  irregular 
terraces,  one  above  the  other  on  the  nearest 
slope,  the  rude  posts  and  trellices  on  the  old 
beach  flats,  show  well  enough  that  my  man 
has  not  been  idle.  My  chief  and  longest 
105 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

trellice  follows  a  curve  on  the  hillside  made 
by  a  pause  in  the  shrinkage  of  ancient  Bonne- 
ville.  Somewhat  lost  the  transplanted  vines 
must  feel,  none  of  their  kindred  for  so  many 
miles  around,  and  exiled,  too,  without  the 
power  of  return.  For  them  it  is  victory  or 
else  it  is  death. 

"Nothing's  so  hard  but  search  will  find  it  out" 

Water  must  be  made  to  bubble  from  amid 
these  stones.  Labor  must  overcome  the 
resistance  of  nature,  for  without  water  my 
labor  is  likely  to  be  my  pay  for  my  pains.  I 
may  long  to  be  Prospero,  but  alas!  I  have 
been  compelled  to  be  my  own  Caliban,  too.  0, 
for  the  smallest,  the  most  unnoticed  stream 
that  goes  to  waste  on  the  distant  Wasatch! 
With  the  means  of  irrigation,  my  task  now 
so  difficult  would  be  made  quite  easy.  The 
struggling  plants  have  shown  green  and  fresh 
enough,  and  quite  healthy,  too,  but  to  reach 
success,  I  must  probe  in  the  earth. 

Currents  of  fresh  water  continue  to  flow, 
some  say,  beneath  the  hard-pan  which  under- 

106 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

lies  this  brine.  Can  I  reach  to  one  of  those? 
Cultivated  plots  of  ground  may  at  this  time 
be  seen  on  one  of  the  eastern  islands,  but 
this  is  an  island— Church — which  is  nearer 
the  mainland,  and  is  much  larger  and  higher 
than  this  one,  and  so  possesses  a  natural  spring. 
In  my  eastern  view,  Fremont,  about  twenty 
miles  distant,  is  faintly  discernible.  The 
autumn  sun  now  rises  just  behind  its  castle- 
shaped  rock.  On  this  island  Judge  Wenner 
set  plants,  and  on  Antelope  Island  an  orchard 
grows.  The  trees  of  this  orchard  are  thirty 
years  old.  On  Fremont  there  is  an  English 
elm,  not  a  tree,  however,  but  a  tiny  young 
shoot  struggling  with  British  persistence. 
Will  it  manage  to  live?  However,  there  winds 
the  path  that  was  made  by  my  feet.  To  keep 
alive  these  few  past  months  the  vines  that  my 
hand  has  planted,  how  many  gallons  of  water 
have  been  carried  from  the  rain-filled  tanks! 
Have  I  persisted  so  long  to  give  up  now? 
Those  leaves  that  have  sprouted  so  greenly; 
that  grew  so  bravely,  that  have  lived  their 
allotted  days,  and  now  hang  pale  and  crisp  on 

107 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

the  parent  vine,  or  lie  brown  upon  the  beach- 
line  of  old  vanished  waves — shall  they  be  the 
last  of  a  race?  I  cling  to  the  faith  that  they 
foretell  a  host.  What  have  I  been  taught,  if 
not  taught  this — to  patiently  watch  and  to 
wait! 

Once  more  a  troglodyte.  Drip,  drip!  In 
cessantly  the  water  runs  off  from  the  roof. 
Now  one  could  half  know  the  gloom  of  mind 
in  which  the  ancient  cave-dweller  passed  the 
long  winter  months,  and  with  what  reluctance 
he  relinquished  the  companionship  and  wild 
sports  of  his  fellows,  and  retreated,  like  the 
lower  animals,  to  his  rocky  den.  How  shall 
we  cheat  the  time?  Like  a  wetted  pebble  is 
the  rocky  island.  The  bushes  drip,  the  porous 
ground  is  dark  and  softened,  the  sands  of  the 
beach  are  white  and  shining.  I  feel  myself 
relapsing  into  old  desires;  but  the  sifters,  wise 
men,  pass  a  joyous  time.  The  day  of  their 
departure  is  close  at  hand.  Their  work  for 
the  year  is  done,  at  any  moment  the  schooner 
may  appear  in  sight,  and  then  an  end  to  all 
108 


IHE  INLAND  SEA 

diversion.    Their  uproarious  mirth  makes  the 
rafters  of  their  dwelling  ring. 

Despite  my  many  crotchets  and  they  are  not 
few,  I  depend  upon  the  sifters  to  enliven  the 
tedium  of  these  final  hours.  Man  is  naturally  a 
gregarious  animal.  Such  intractable  weather 
as  this,  if  nothing  else,  would  drive  him  to 
social  intercourse.  I  join  in  the  sifters' 
games.  When  my  sifter,  the  drudge,  and  I 
part  company,  there  will  be  regret  on  one 
side,  at  least.  The  man  has  often  been  my 
willing  companion,  nor  do  I  need  a  better 
guest.  Talkative  or  taciturn,  one  or  the 
other,  so  I  find  those  who  have  lived  much 
alone.  The  drudge  is  the  happy  medium.  I 
have  barkened  his  words  and  I  know  his 
troubles.  No  man  or  life  without  its  ambi 
tions,  and  the  drudge  has  his.  Added  to  his 
giant-like  strength  are  unexpected  qualities  of 
heart  and  head.  Some  of  these  I  have  learned 
to  admire.  Who  is  not  pleased  to  see  a  reserve 
of  strength?  Sorrow  and  disappointment 
have  found  out  the  drudge,  and  in  his  slow 
mind  he  has  been  compelled  to  work  out  the 
109 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

problems  of  life.  It  is  not  without  a  bit  of 
quiet  vanity  that  the  man  sees  himself  so 
often  a  pictorial  occupant  of  my  island 
sketches,  nor  need  I  better  critic  than  the 
drudge  has  sometimes  been.  Extremes  meet: 
it  is  the  truly  cultivated  and  the  rough, 
unlettered,  who  give  a  valuable  judgment. 
The  lesson  oft  comes  when  we  least  expect  it, 
and  not  without  a  gratification,  not  unmixed 
with  irony,  it  may  be,  did  the  maker  of  the 
sketches  themselves  see  in  his  animate  sub 
ject  the  same  thoughts  at  work  that  passed 
through  his  own  brain  as  he  pursued  his 
different  task. 

Grand  are  the  statements  of  science;  take 
the  weather  forecast:  "A  storm  is  brewing 
in  the  regions  far  to  the  south."  How  simple 
those  words,  and  yet  how  much  they  tell!  Or 
again,  "A  soliterraneous  storm  date  is  the — ;" 
or,  "owing  to  the  connect ional  action  from 
the  hot  air  being  cooled  and  rolled  back  to 
the  earth."  Soon  I  may  see,  as  well  as  those, 
another  "Arctic  wave,  accompanied  by  very 

no 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

high  winds."  A  season  of  changes  and  a 
station  of  vantage  this?  There  is  not  a 
mood  in  these  transitional  times  that  escapes 
my  sight.  The  position  of  my  island  in  the 
midst  of  this  far-reaching  sea,  and  its  sur 
rounding  landscape,  gives  me,  in  sort,  the 
power  of  a  seer.  To  one  at  a  distance  much 
that  is  otherwise  unknowable  is  made  to  be 
plain.  Shut  in  amid  the  walls  of  yonder  high 
mountains,  how  different  it  would  be  to  under 
stand  the  movements  of  these  recurring 
storms!  From  this  island  it  is  easy,  and  hence 
my  endowment.  From  my  hut  window  one 
can  mark  the  coming  of  the  clouds  and  note 
their  progress  along  the  parallel  ranges.  It 
is  in  the  remoteness  of  the  south-west — where 
there  is  a  suspicion  of  the  fore-shortened 
Tintic  Range,  and  even  of  others  beyond 
it,  that  the  generic  storms  are  seen  to 
come.  The  Alpha  and  Omega  of  many  a  local 
storm  I  see.  The  Wasatch — 

Peace  where  the  adverse  winds  meet  and  where  lie 
In  wait  the  thunder  clouds — 

in 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

being  of  all  the  ranges  within  my  sight,  the 
loftiest,  has  bred,  of  course,  or  attracted 
towards  itself,  the  greater  number  of 
local  or  isolated,  wandering  storms.  Some 
times,  however,  there  is  a  separate  gathering 
in  the  Oquirrh  and  Onaqui,  or  on  the  domes 
of  Malad.  Sometimes  I  see  the  tops  of  storm- 
clouds  whose  bases  rest  on  the  Uinta  Range. 
Certain  low  mountains  there  are  that  serve  as 
highways  for  the  wandering  kind,  but  it  is 
the  Wasatch  alone  that  forms  legions  of  clouds 
to  pass  on  to  the  Uintas  who  in  turn,  send 
them  eastward  to  drench  with  their  storms 
the  far  gradients  and  plains. 

A  storm  which  is  to  be  general,  and  one 
that  is  to  be  merely  a  local  disturbance,  is 
easily  foreseen.  There  are  storms  that  pass 
not,  that  live  and  die,  as  it  were,  on  their 
place  of  birth.  There  is  the  advance,  the 
parting,  the  re-uniting  of  similarly  disposed 
forces,  the  struggle  of  opposing  storms  and 
the  great  seasonic  changes.  Sometimes  I 
have  seen  the  storms  on  the  mountains  as 
one  might  see,  the  armies  on  a  battle  field. 

112 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

There  were  the  hosts  of  cloud,  rushing  upon 
the  mountain  bulwarks,  as  the  hosts  of  men 
rush  upon  some  huge  redoubt.  There  was  the 
attack,  the  defense,  the  recoil.  I  saw  some 
peak  taken  by  the  cloud  forces,  lost,  retaken, 
and  lost  again.  I  learned  to  know  the  objec 
tive  points,  I  saw  the  contention  around  the 
great  cores— the  central  clusters  of  highest 
peaks— aud  foresaw  the  meeting  of  the  cloud 
tides  upon  some  mighty  ridge,  as  once  met 
the  tides  of  men  upon  the  plateau  of  Mont 
St.  Jean.  From  the  island,  whole  armies  of 
cloud  might  be  seen,  sweeping  across  the 
crests;  rushing  along  the  mountain  roads — 
the  canons— and  whole  battalions  sinking 
into  cross  ravines.  In  the  lower  valleys,  the 
grass,  the  weeds,  the  foliage,  bent  down  in 
terror  at  the  fury  of  their  passing,  and  dark 
ness  came  across  the  expectant  land. 

Now  comes  the  end  of  autumn.  The  storms 
are  cleared,  but  the  last  cold  rain  has  frozen 
as  it  fell.  In  sheets  and  ice-embossings  it 
gleams  on  the  island  rocks.  There  is  no 

16 

113 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

mistaking  these  days.  As  spring  breathed 
in  the  wind  from  the  south,  so  now  winter 
breathes  again  in  the  wind  from  the  north. 
October  passes,  and  passes  in  spacious  mien. 

"The  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief" 

Still  there  lingers  at  eve  a  crimson  glow 
on  the  eastern  heights,  and  deeply  yellow — 
aureolin-tinted,  dashed  with  cadmium — are 
the  western  skies.  Along  the  horizons,  the 
mountain  chains — their  slopes  still  showing 
some  former  color,  and  on  their  summits  the 
white  of  the  newly-fallen  snow — show  lumin 
ous  through  the  ambient  air.  To-night  the 
moonlight  is  rare.  If  ever  in  manhood's 
strength,  one  could  bring  back  his  childhood 
belief  in  magic  islands  and  enchanted  valleys, 
it  would  be  in  such  a  place,  and  on  such  a 
night  as  this.  All  is  crystalline  pure.  The 
island  peak,  and  even  the  near  rocks  appear 
cerulean.  The  slopes,  the  ridges,  the  tur 
quoise-green  water,  and  the  far-off  mountains 
themselves,  are  wrapped  in  a  tender  and 
silvery  blue. 

114 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

There  is  silence  around.  Long  since,  the 
old  and  the  gray-winged  gulls  have  flown.  But 
once  more  there  falls  from  out  the  sky,  and 
softened  by  distance,  the  dissonant  clang  of 
migrating  geese;  and  once  again  I  hear,  a 
sound  to  stir  the  blood  as  one  listens,  the 
trumpet-call  of  the  southward-flying  swan. 


115 


<Sunni0on  flsianfr— farewell 


V. 

Gunnteon   Ttelanfc— jfareweil 

My  friends  are  here;  my  household  goods 
are  piled  aboard  the  yacht.  The  boat  of  the 
sifters'  having  departed  ere  mine  arrived,  the 
Gunnison,  for  a  time  at  least,  will  be  given 
over  to  solitude  again. 

These  36,806,400  seconds;  613,440  minutes; 
10,224  hours;  426  days;  606/?  weeks,  these 
14  months;  or,  to  bring  the  calculation  to  a 
finer  division,  and  one  of  nature's  own, 
42,940,800,  one  sixtieth  part  of  those  heart 
beats  that  go  to  make  up  man's  allotment  of 
three  score  years  and  ten — these  since  my 
roof-tree  was  placed.  Now  my  homesteading 
is  done  and  I  am  free  to  depart.  So  many 
heart  beats  while  I  lay  in  sleep,  lost  in  death's 
counterfeit;  so  many  passed  in  action,  forge  t- 

119 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

ful  of  the  ego;  so  many  in  reverie,  so  many 
given  to  this  and  to  that,  and  the  time  has 
slipped  away.  Can  it  be  that  fourteen  months 
have  passed  already  since  the  yacht  that  waits 
to  bear  me  from  hence,  entered  with  its  cargo 
this  unusual  port?  Not  so  long  ago,  it  seems 
to-day  as  yesterday.  Not  so  long  ago  since 
we  traversed,  with  our  loads  of  building 
material,  the  parched  and  lonely  desert  shore. 
Not  so  long  since  we  saw  the  rabbits  and 
creatures  of  the  waste — through  wildness 
tame — and  listened  to  the  coyotes'  serenade. 
Nor  so  long,  either,  since  we  embarked  with 
boat  sails  set  wing  to  wing  from  the  last  and 
well- remembered  camping  spot,  and  passed 
one  by  one  the  terminal  peaks  of  the  Desert 
Range,  and  opened  out  slowly  as  we  came 
from  the  south,  the  bays  and  straits  and  so, 
by  the  jutting  rocks  and  huge,  black  head  of 
Strong's  Knob,  came  at  last  to  these  island 
shores,  and  I  began  my  now  completed  vigil. 

"His  palace  or  his  prison,"    so  Kingsley 
declared  England  to  him  must  be.    How  much 

120 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

indeed  one  may  become  attached  to  even  the 
most  barren  spots  is  a  truth  well  known,  and 
day  by  day  I  have  learned  to  love  my  island 
more.  One  of  the  strange  things  in  life  is 
this — there  is  no  experience  one  would  care 
to  have  missed— when  once  that  experience  is 
past  and  over.  So  it  has  been  with  this — 
I  should  dislike  to  part  with  it  now.  Whatever 
I  might  have  done,  if  I  had  not  done  this — 
who  would  be  able  to  tell?  It  might  be  the 
stamp  of  a  limited  power;  a  mind  of  inferior 
scope,  that  one  could  remain  satisfied  with  a 
toy  like  this.  But  no,  it  is  not  an  arc  to 
determine  my  circle.  One  thing  is  certain, 
my  island  life  has  been  the  antithesis  of 
travel.  From  the  day  of  my  marooning  to 
this,  my  adventures,  if  such  they  may  be 
called,  have  all  transpired  within  the  confines 
of  this  one  scene.  The  transitions  of  effects 
which  I  have  witnessed  though,  novel  in 
themselves,  have  all  been  over  these  familiar 
outlines  of  foreground  and  distance.  Among 
my  books  is  a  pair  of  old  volumes — "First  and 
Second  Walks  Through  Wales,"  by  the  Rev. 

16 

121 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Richard  Warner  of  Bath,  1799— and  also  a 
book  but  recently  issued  from  the  eastern 
press.  As  lately  I  looked  over  UA  Holiday 
Tour  in  Europe,"  noting  the  headings  of 
chapters  that  the  book  contains,  and  also 
those  of  the  earlier  volumes,  I  was  reminded 
of  a  patent  fact.  As  much  by  the  short 
walks  of  him,  the  one  who  carried  his  walking 
stick  and  knapsack,  exploring  at  his  leisure 
the  beauties  of  his  native  land,  and  whose 
letters — the  spelling,  at  times,  a  little  obsolete 
— are  dedicated  to  his  patron  squire;  as  by 
the  up-to-date  American  abroad,  whose  trench 
ant  journalistic  sentences  often  end  with  a 
self-assertive  map,  as  with  democratic  free 
dom,  he  compares,  criticises  and  pronounces 
judgment  on  all  that  he  sees,  and  who  enjoyed 
all  the  modern  facilities  and  luxuries  for  quick 
locomotion,  I  was  reminded  of  one  of  the  chief 
pleasures  of  travel,  viz. — surprise.  Whether 
or  no  one  can  derive  the  same  degree  of 
profit  and  pleasure  from  a  daily  observation 
of  the  scenes  immediately  around  a  given 
spot,  under  the  changing  phases  of  the  day 

122 


IHE  INLAND  SEA 

and  year,  and  with  none  or  a  few  companions, 
as  he  can  from  a  rapid  survey,  in  constantly 
changing  company,  of  widely  dissimilar  scenes, 
peoples,  and  countries,  it  is  difficult  to  say. 
Of  course,  much  depends  on  the  mood.  The 
possibilities  lie  in  the  condition  of  mind. 
There  is  a  consideration  that  is  the  result  of 
an  enforced  notice  and  that  which  is  given 
through  the  desire  and  gratification  of  change. 
One  must  be  far  more  analytic  in  his  seeing, 
to  enjoy  the  former  method  of  looking  at 
nature  and  mankind,  in  preference  to  that  of 
the  latter— that  much  I  have  learned.  The 
element  of  excitement  is  wanting,  and  in  a 
measure,  novelty,  too.  Thus  it  has  been 
these  months.  Whether  during  this  time  I 
have  been  degenerating  into  a  beast,  or  rising 
toward  a  god,  what  need  to  tell.  In  contem 
plation,  I  have  learned,  perhaps,  the  root  of 
action;  have  learned  more  of  the  world,  it 
may  be.  than  though  I  had  journeyed  upon  it. 
At  least,  I  have  escaped  taking  unto  myself 
the  charge — "a  fool's  eyes  are  in  the  ends  of 
the  earth." 

123 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

During  my  watching,  what  mighty  happen 
ings  have  been.  History  has  been  made, 
civilization  has  advanced.  Events  fraught 
with  importance  to  the  coming  ages  have 
transpired;  consummation  has  been  given  to 
the  labor  of  centuries.  Men  have  laid  down 
their  lives.  Art,  science,  liberty,  religion, 
each  has  known  new  martyrs;  and  all  the  while, 
I  have  been  here  in  my  littleness,  taking  con 
cern  in  the  changes  wrought  within  the 
bounds  of  this  small  place,  intent  upon  the 
doings  of  a  mere  handful  of  men,  or  watching 
the  unfolding  of  a  few  green  leaves.  Yet  in 
the  pleasure  derived  from  such,  my  island, 
I  can  truly  say,  has  been  made  as  much  a 
palace  as  a  prison  to  me. 

Here  I  make  an  inventory  of  property  and 
benefits  accrued  since  the  day  of  my  house- 
warming.  A  short  list  it  may  be,  and  some 
of  the  items  not  at  all  of  present  value,  if  of 
value  at  all,  as  the  world  goes,  but  on  the 
whole,  to  the  one  who  writes  it,  quite  satis 
factory: 

124 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

A  desert  island,  that  is,  an  island  that  is 
perhaps  a  desert  now,  but  if  water  shall  come 
from  below  these  rocks,  one  where  I  may  yet 
eat  the  grape  from  the  vine,  if  not  the  fig 
from  the  tree.* 

A  step  toward  an  understanding  of  the 
noble  Art  of  Horticulture:  "Do  men  gather 
grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles?" 

The  actual  difference  between  a  practical 
and  a  theoretical  mode  of  life. 

How  to  judge  the  whole  from  the  arc  of 
the  circle. 

A  proof  undeniable,  of  the  fact  that  it  is 
always  the  unexpected  that  happens.  An 

*I  have  called  the  island  mine,  although  strictly 
speaking,  I  should  say  only  a  portion  thereof.  Of 
a  total  area  of  155.06  acres,  my  homestead  covers 
78.35  acres,  the  remaining  part  being  divided 
between  a  railway  grant,  and  a  state  school  sec 
tion.  The  northern  part  of  the  island — mine,  is 
the  one  that  is  grand  with  cliff  and  bay.  The 
state  school  section — 7.50  acres,  comprises  a  low 
promontory;  great  blocks  of  stone  and  wave- 
washed  boulders. 

125 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

opening  of  the  eyes  to  the  truth  that  sur 
render  is  sometimes  a  victory.  A  seeing,  too, 
that  while  we  stand  fumbling  at  the  door 
which  is  locked,  another  may  stand  wide  open. 

A  knowledge  of  the  Polar  Star:  that  of  a 
truth  it  remains  stationary  there  in  the  north 
ern  heavens,  a  point  of  rest  amid  the  suns, 
and  the  vast  unseen. 

My  home,  a  place  of  refuge  by  a  rock  of 
strength. 

A  true  application  of  the  Mosaic  law  and 
its  relationship  to  the  admonition,  "Do  unto 
others  as  you  would  have  them  do  unto  you." 

An  understanding  of  the  verse  of  Eccle- 
siastes: 

"Wherefore  I  perceive  that  there  is  nothing 
better  than  that  a  man  should  rejoice  in  his 
own  works;  for  that  is  his  position:  For  who 
shall  bring  him  to  see  what  shall  be  after 
him?" 

The  wisdom,  too,  that  lies  in  contemplation, 
and  the  forsaking  of  works. 

A  set  of  sketches,  the  true  art  qualities  of 
which,  after  all,  are  far  in  excess  of  their 

126 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

strangeness.  An  excellent  collect,  and  one, 
it  appears  to  me,  not  without  its  value.  Such 
as  hold  a  proof  that  everywhere  nature,  as 
mankind,  is  akin. 

A  bronzed  countenance,  and  a  gain  in 
physical  strength  and  well  being. 

The  virtue  of  possessing  my  soul  in  patience, 
and  the  memory  of  four  hundred  twenty-six 
days,  the  effect  of  which  upon  me  mentally,  I 
cannot  just  at  present  weigh,  but  which  I 
believe  will  be  beneficial. 

Not  a  poor  investment  of  time,  then,  nor 
one  likely,  in  mine  own  opinion,  to  cause  me 
regret. 

To-night  we  illumined  the  island  with  a 
drift-wood  fire.  An  enormous  pile  we  made; 
the  pine-tree  and  the  fir  that  have  been  torn 
from  their  native  rock,  and  by  the  course  of 
many  waters  been  brought  to  these  alien 
shores.  As  the  swift  flames  shot  upward 
from  the  mass,  the  scene  around  us  was 
romantic  as  well  could  be.  And  music,  too? — 

127 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

is  not  the  charm  of  out- door  music  every 
where  the  same?  On  spreading  plain,  in 
forest,  in  heart  of  granite  hills,  or  as  with 
us,  by  the  shores  of  a  briny  sea,  "Music  at 
nightfall"  touches  all  hearts  alike.  No 
sooner  are  the  shadows  fallen  than  the 
emotions  hold  sway,  and  whatever  be  our 
feelings  then,  music  is  the  key  to  all.  The 
ferryman  of  the  highland  loch  keeps  time 
with  his  oar  beats  to  a  ballad  of  Burns  or 
Motherwell;  and  the  boatman  on  Killarney 
sings  long  and  loud  to  the  echo  of  Paddy 
Blake's  Cliff. 

"The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day" 

whether  it  be  on  the  gently  rocking  waves 
of  the  Mediterranean,  or  by  the  bleak  shores 
of  Norway,  beguiles  his  time  with  song. 
Probably  the  most  ancient  Briton,  paddling 
in  his  conacle  of  wicker  was  fully  as  suscep 
tible  to  the  influence  of  out-door  music  as 
were  ever  the  Venetians  in  their  gondolas, 
or  as  the  dusky  steersman  of  to-day,  standing 

128 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

at  the  tiller  of  the  dahabeeah,  gliding  up  or 
down  old  Nile.  Savage  and  civilized  nations 
are  alike  in  this.  No  difference  whatever 
between  those  men  of  the  long  ago  and  the 
far-away,  and  us,  as,  filled  with  animal  life 
and  roused  emotions,  we  sent  a  melody  across 
the  waste  and  brine.  A  grotesque  spectacle 
we  must  have  been,  as  with  joyous  zest  we 
sang  beneath  the  open  sky.  With  baritone, 
and  base,  and  tenor  too,  we  joined  uncultured 
voices  in  round  and  catch  and  glee;  songs 
national,  gay,  or  pathetic,  as  the  thought  of 
the  moment  willed,  and  all  the  while  we  heard 
an  obligate  of  wind  and  sea.  My  own  and  the 
sifters'  huts;  the  naked  peak  and  the  curving 
sands;  the  breaking  waves,  the  waiting  yacht, 
the  trellised  slopes,  the  wing  of  passing  sea- 
bird;  each  rock  and  bush,  each  ridge  and 
well-known  crag,  were  reddened  in  the  night- 
fire's  glow. 

Historians  invariably  begin  their  account  of 
a  civilized  country  with  a  description  of  its 
earlier  condition,  Those  who  describe  wild 

17 

129 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

places,  seem  to  make  every  possible  reference 
to  man.  A  thousand  miles  of  distance  is 
sometimes  the  same  as  a  thousand  years  of 
time;  and  such  a  difference  may  make  one  an 
actor  in  the  beginning  or  in  the  ending  of 
the  course  of  empire.  Civilization  may  yet 
flood  with  luxury  this  inchoate  waste.  "One 
wearies  soon  of  seeing  and  admiring  the 
purely  external  aspects  of  things,  without 
knowledge  of  their  structure,  of  their  history, 
of  their  functions,  or  of  their  symbolism." 
What  would  be  the  use  of  either  sketch-book 
or  diary,  if  one  could  not  see  beyond  the 
pictures,  or  read  between  the  lines?  The 
saying:  "Vain  men  talk  of  the  past,  wise 
men  of  the  present,  fools  of  the  future/'  is 
one  that  might  be  changed.  The  past  only 
is  sure,  and  the  future  certainly  receives  the 
consideration  of  the  wise.  What  is  life 
itself  otherwise  than  a  preparation,  a  strug 
gle,  and  a  retrospect?  Extremes  follow.  Will 
some  day  the  marble  buildings  of  my  island 
reflect  in  the  Inland  Sea?  Will  here  be  yet 
unthought  of  luxuries  of  the  bath?  Or  will 

130 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

mankind  progress  beyond  all  that,  and  all 
needful  tonics,  restoratives  of  health,  etc.,  be 
available  by  merely  pressing  upon  a  golden 
button? 

Among  the  drift  there  lay  a  piece  of  wreck. 
Boats  seldom  come  here,  and  this  piece  of 
timber  bleached  into  perfect  whiteness  by 
exposure  to  heat  and  brine,  must  have  floated 
for  many  a  year.  Cached  among  the  stones 
that  form  the  base  of  the  crow's  nest  on  the 
summit  of  the  northern  cliff,  there  is  a  metal 
cylinder.  It  contains  the  names  of  visiting 
boats  and  their  crews  who  have  touched  at 
this  point  from  time  to  time.  The  number  ia 
small;  there  are  but  five  boats  mentioned,  and 
one  of  those  is  our  own.  Wrecks  there  have 
been  elsewhere,  for  never  did  a  body  of  water 
show  more  spite  than  does  this  sea.  To  the 
end  of  each  boat's  life  must  be  placed  the  one 
word— wrecked.  Of  all  the  craft  that  have 
sailed  on  its  waters,  there  is  not  one  which, 
in  seeming  treachery  or  spiteful  rage,  it  has 
not  destroyed.  On  the  shore  of  Stansbury 

131 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

Island  there  lies  a  boat  which,  from  its  general 
state  of  decay,  the  great  holes  broken  into  its 
sides,  and  its  position  just  on  the  edge  of  the 
highest  surf -line,  I  concluded  to  have  been 
drifted  across  the  sea,  and  been  cast  upon  the 
rocks  by  a  winter's  storm.  There  have  been 
wrecks  on  Church  Island,  too;  on  Promontory 
and  the  southern  shore,  but  none,  I  think,  so 
far  westward  as  this.  Perhaps  the  relic  that 
fed  our  flames  was  a  bit  of  the  old  Pioneer, 
or  it  may  have  come  from  the  Star  of  the 
West.  Mayhap  it  was  a  piece  from  the  ribs 
of  the  Kate  Connor,  whose  skeleton  lay  for 
several  years  at  one  of  the  river  mouths;  or, 
it  may  have  come  from  the  Stansbury  scow, 
the  Salicornia;  or  from  the  Pluribustah,  or 
other  boat  with  equally  wneuphonious  name. 
At  least,  its  age  seemed  to  bespeak  it  as  being 
from  some  initial  craft  to  sail  on  the  Inland 


Who  among  men  was  the  first  to  set  foot 
on  this  shore?  The  young  army  officer,  per 
haps,  whose  name  the  island  bears.  Or,  it 

132 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

may  be,  some  other  of  the  Stansbury  party, 
who  touched  here  on  the  first  survey.  Who 
ever  it  was,  his  name  will  be  forever  un 
known,  but  what  of  the  other  islands? 

It  chanced  one  day  that  I  was  looking  at 
random  over  a  lot  of  portraits  in  a  photogra 
pher's  gallery,  when  one  of  the  faces  attracted 
and  enchained  my  attention  at  once.  It  was 
an  unusual  face,  I  thought,  one  quite  out  of 
the  general  order.  There  was  a  lofty  expanse 
of  forehead,  and  the  long,  slightly  waved  hair 
was  pushed  carelessly  back  from  the  brow 
and  temples.  Two  deep  lines  of  thought  were 
between  the  eyes;  the  wings  of  the  nose  were 
high,  bespeaking  originality,  while  from  the 
ears  to  the  top  of  the  forehead,  the  distance 
looked  almost  as  great  as  it  does  in  portraits 
of  the  historian  Prescott.  About  the  upper 
face,  there  was  something  decidedly  of  the 
poetic  temperament,  though  the  lower  part 
was  strangely  at  variance  with  this.  The 
chin  was  heavy  and  square-cut,  the  mouth 
large  and  firm,  and,  though  it  indicated  that 
the  possessor  might  be  capable  of  much  feeling, 

133 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

it  showed  more  power  than  emotion.  The 
muscles  of  the  lower  face,  too,  appeared  dry? 
hard  and  ropy,  as  from  long  exposure  to  the 
sun  and  weather,  and  the  eyes,  though  there 
was  a  slight  show  of  sadness  in  them,  were 
dark,  and  piercing,  and  their  far-away  look  com 
bined  that  of  the  eagle  with  those  of  the  poet. 
The  owner  of  that  face  made  his  name 
famous.  It  was  the  redoubtable  trapper, 
guide  and  explorer,  Kit  Carson.  When,  in 
company  with  "The  Pathfinder,"  in  1843,  he 
rowed  over  to  the  Disappointment  Island,  as 
they  first  named  the  Fremont,  he  thought 
that  their  boat  was  the  very  first  to  touch  on 
that  island  shore.  But  of  the  truth  of  that 
supposition  there  is  reason  to  doubt.  Who 
cut  the  cross  on  the  face  of  the  rock?  This, 
too,  is  unknown.  The  same  man,  it  might  be, 
one  of  the  zealous  old  missionaries  who  lost 
that  crucifix  and  rosary  which  were  recently 
exhumed  from  a  depth  of  four  feet  below  the 
surface  of  the  ground,  by  some  laborers 
engaged  in  cutting  a  water-ditch  in  one  of  the 
villages  on  the  eastern  shore.  We  know, 

134 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

therefrom,  and  there  are  records,  too,  that 
the  Catholic  missionaries  traversed  the  neigh 
boring  valleys,  and  that  they  might  have  visit 
ed  some  of  the  nearer  islands,  why  should 
we  doubt?  The  cross  on  Fremont  was  cut  on 
the  smooth  face  of  a  rock,  now  fast  crumbling 
away,  and  is  toward  the  north.  Some  have 
imagined  that  the  emblem  was  cut  by  Carson, 
but  Fremont  does  not  mention  it  in  his  report, 
although  he  wrote  of  some  trifling  matters, 
the  loss  of  the  telescope- cover,  for  instance, 
an  object  that  has  been  much  sought  after. 
This,  however,  Judge  Wenner,  who  lived  so 
many  years  with  his  wife  and  children  upon 
Fremont  Island,  believed  to  have  been  found 
and  hidden  by  the  ravens  who  frequent  the 
place.  Their  thieving  propensities  are  well- 
known,  and  such  a  bright,  shining  object  as 
the  metal  telescope-cover  would  have  caught 
at  once  their  watchful  eyes.  However  all  this 
may  be,  whoever  may  have  preceded  me  here, 
and  whatsoever  may  have  been  the  object  of 
their  coming,  myself,  I  believe,  was  the  first 
person  who  came  here  for  love. 

135 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

At  4  a.m.  we  quitted  the  bay.  Land  and 
sea  were  but  vaguely  defined  in  a  struggle 
between  the  moonlight  and  dawn.  Our  main 
sail  was  double  reefed,  for  we  entertained 
misgivings  of  the  weather  outside.  The  wind 
had  been  dead  to  the  north,  and  blowing  hard 
all  night.  On  our  side  the  hill,  the  water  was 
quiet,  but  wake  as  often  as  we  would,  we  heard 
the  crashing  of  waves  as  they  broke  in  the 
opposite  bay.  Half  a  mile  from  the  island 
and  we  began  to  catch  the  wind;  not  so  bois 
terous  at  first,  but  enough  to  make  my  home 
fall  rapidly  astern.  In  a  very  short  time,  the 
Gunnison  appeared  to  be  farther  away  than 
Strong's  Knob,  six  miles  to  the  south,  its 
outlines  exceedingly  grand. 

Soon,  however,  there  was  little  time  for 
admiring  the  scene.  Winds  and  waves  in- 
increased  until  the  latter  would  have  tossed 
a  good-sized  ship.  The  point  we  desired  to 
make  lay  about  twenty  miles  distant,  some 
what  south  of  east,  so  that  our  course  was 
nearly  along  the  trough  of  the  sea,  but  in 


136 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

order  to  quarter  the  waves,  we  directed  our 
course  more  northerly. 

With  the  waves  already  so  high,  and  the 
wind  increasing,  anxious  faces  might  have 
been  seen  on  the  yacht.  Not  but  that  we 
expected  to  weather  it  through  all  right,  but 
when  it  taxed  the  power  of  two  strong  men 
to  manage  the  tiller  of  such  a  tiny  craft, 
affairs  were  getting  serious.  Perhaps,  as 
''a  landsman,"  I  overestimated  the  danger, 
but  still  I  believe  that  every  man  on  board 
devoutly  wished  himself  ashore;  not  in  any 
craven  way — perish  the  thought ! — not  to  have 
evaded  the  danger  then  and  there,  and  thus 
have  missed  its  lesson,  but  wishing,  rather, 
that  we  had  fought  it  successfully  through. 
All  men,  save  born  cowards,  must  know  of  the 
thrill,  the  secret  sense  of  exultation,  engen 
dered  sometimes  in  the  presence  of  danger. 
To  those  who  pass  their  lives  in  continued 
security,  must  sometimes  come  a  longing,  the 
knowledge  of  a  sense  not  gratified.  In  the 
present  case  it  might  be  argued,  there  was 
no  way  of  escape;  true,  but  under  similar 

18 

137 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

circumstances  no  one  need  expect  to  make  a 
cruise  across  the  Inland  Sea,  without  incurring 
the  same  kind  of  risks. 

By  sunrise,  the  blow  had  come  to  its  hardest. 
The  waves  had  a  vicious  look,  the  foam  tore 
fiercely  from  off  their  crests.  We  experienced 
one  trying  moment  as  we  dropped  the  main 
sail,  a  huge,  green  wave  striking  the  boat  a 
blow  which  surrounded  us  for  the  instant  in 
hissing  foam.  The  next  moment,  we  were 
high  on  a  crest,  the  foresail  holding  us 
steadily  enough  to  the  wind. 

That  was  the  turning  point;  we  began  to 
breathe.  The  waves  grew  no  higher,  we 
fancied  that  they  were  growing  less.  What 
a  magnificent  sight  it  was,  as  the  sun,  lifting 
above  a  low  bank  of  clouds,  streamed  on  the 
turbulent  sea!  Struck  by  the  level  rays,  how 
old  the  western  mountains  appeared;  centuries 
of  age  seemed  suddenly  heaped  on  their  heads. 
Toward  the  sun,  how  beautiful  it  was!  The 
high,  transparent  waves  pierced  through  by 
the  light,  so  that  they  came  forward  like  a 


13$ 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

craggy  wall,  emerald  below,  and  topaz  above. 
It  realized  the  lines  of  Byron — 

"The  yellow  beam  he  throws 

Gilds  the  green  wave  that  trembles  as  it  glows" 

Only  these  words  were  never  written  to 
describe  such  a  wild,  tumultuous,  onsweeping 
of  waters  such  as  we  looked  upon. 

In  another  hour,  we  had  reached  comparative 
quiet.  Under  the  shelter  of  the  tall  Promon. 
tory  Hills,  the  sea  only  acknowledged  the 
past  blow  by  running  in  short,  jerky  swells, 
the  most  trying  to  landsmen  of  all  motions  of 
water,  and  was  fast  approaching  a  state  of 
calm. 

The  remainder  of  that  day,  we  passed  in 
working  slowly  towards  the  east.  Time  and 
again  we  lay  becalmed.  With  whiffs  of  wind, 
the  prow  of  our  boat  crept  nearer  and  nearer. 
Beautiful  to  my  eyes  appeared  the  first  glimpse 
of  the  village  streets  and  walls,  with  the 
peeping  gables  and  chimneys,  and  the  languid 
coils  of  smoke  above  them.  While  coming 
through  the  channel,  between  Fremont  Island 

139 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

and  Promontory  Point,  we  made  a  stop  at  the 
latter.  Looking  westward,  a  bluff  of  light- 
colored  sandstone,  with  lower  projections  of 
slate,  jutted  boldly  over  the  water.  Across 
the  sea,  the  western  islands  and  mountains 
showed  beautifully  clear;  especially  the 
Stansbury  Island,  whose  two  high  domes 
stood  darkly  shadowed  against  the  sharp, 
dim  snow  peaks  of  the  Tuilla  Range.  Over 
their  summits  was  a  massy  cumulus,  lovely 
in  form  and  color.  Seen  near  by,  the  cloud 
was  probably  of  a  dazzling  whiteness,  with  a 
suggestion  of  thunder  in  the  lurid  shadows, 
but  at  the  distance  we  viewed,  it  showed  on 
the  sky  in  the  most  exquisite  aerial  tints. 

Northward  of  this,  across  the  great  main 
body  of  the  sea  which  we  had  placed  behind 
us,  amid  the  paleness  of  distance  and  the 
closing  year,  I  sought  to  distinguish  a  well- 
known  outline.  Alas!  it  had  vanished  from 
sight — Gunnison  Island,  farewell! 


140 


Supplement 


Supplement 

It  may  not  be  out  of  place  to  give  here  a 
few  general  thoughts  upon  the  Inland  Sea. 
Various  letters  of  which  I  am  in  receipt 
contain  questions  that  are  answered  herein. 
In  most  cases,  the  questions  asked  are  indi 
cative  of  a  desire,  on  the  part  of  their  writers, 
to  become  acquainted  with  the  scenes  this 
book  suggests,  as  well  as  those  actually 
described.  SfltefflQjfJ  ] 

The  Inland  Sea  bears  the  reputation  o: 
being  a  most  dangerous  as  well  as  a  novel 
sheet  of  water,  and  the  reputation  is  merited, 
beyond  a  doubt.  Like  all  mountain-locked 
seas,  this  one  is  subject  to  quick  and  unex 
pected  change,  and  the  islands,  most  of  them 
with  iron-bound  shores,  cause  very  ugly  cross 
currents,  which,  in  connection  with  sunken 
reefs,  often  cramp  the  mariner  in  a  choice  of 

143 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

sea-room.  For  carelessness,  there  is  no  place. 
In  a  cruise  of  any  length,  heavy  seas  are  likely 
to  be  met  with,  and  it  is  almost  incredible,  to 
those  whose  sailing  has  been  confined  to  lighter 
waters,  the  force  with  which  the  briny  waves 
can  strike.  In  spite  of  its  density,  however, 
the  water  has  a  peculiar  aptitude  for  trans 
mitting  motion,  so  that  in  a  short  time  the 
waves  rise  to  a  trying  height,  though,  be  it 
understood,  they  fall  as  quickly  upon  the 
cessation  of  a  blow. 

Promontory  Point  is  associated  in  my  mind 
with  another  stress,  other  than  that  one  already 
described.  In  the  month  of  April,  and  near  the 
spot  that  gave  us  before  so  kindly  a  shelter, 
I  passed,  but  in  another  boat,  as  nasty  a  day 
as  one  would  much  care  to  see.  On  the 
previous  evening,  we  had  anchored  in  the 
neighboring  channel,  and  on  Easter-Sunday 
attempted  the  Gunnison  run.  By  the  coming 
storm,  we  were  forced  back  again  to  the  shore. 
This  time  we  were  caught  on  the  west  side  of 
the  range,  and  for  thirteen  long  hours  we 
faced  the  teeth  of  a  north-west  gale  that, 

144 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

like  a  living  and  infuriated  creature,  lashed 
and  roared  around  us. 

In  making  a  cruise  to  the  islands  occupying 
the  north-west  part  of  the  sea,  it  is  always 
necessary  to  carry  a  plentiful  supply  of  water. 
Up  to  the  present  time,  all  attempts  to  obtain 
the  precious  fluid  on  those  islands  have  failed; 
and  any  disaster  there  would  be  attended  by 
the  ugliest  possibilities.  The  intense  brine 
of  the  sea  gives  another  danger.  In  rough 
weather,  there  is  no  question  of  endurance  in 
swimming,  a  few  mouths  full  of  the  choking 
water  soon  puts  an  end  to  all  that.  An  affair 
happened  to  one  of  the  Stansbury  party,  but 
in  really  a  moderate  sea;  even  then  the  poor 
fellow  who  suffered  an  involuntary  immersion 
in  the  briny  waves  was  unfit  for  duty  for  the 
next  forty-eight  hours. 

That  the  voyager  will  meet  with  any  of 
these  mishaps,  however,  is  quite  improbable. 
There  is  no  reason  why  the  Inland  Sea  should 
not  be  a  source  of  much  actual  pleasure.  Of 
the  sights  attendant  upon  the  place,  I  have 
endeavored  to  give  a  clue  in  the  preceding 

145 


THE  INLAND  SEA 

pages.  A  body  of  water  upon  which  one  may 
sail,  day  after  day,  without  looking  twice  on 
the  same  shores,  and  which  presents  such 
striking  features,  certainly  offers  attractions 
in  the  way  of  boating.  A  cruise  is  kept 
unabated  in  interest  until  the  end. 

As  some  interest  may  attach  to  the  style  of 
boat  best  adapted  to  sail  on  the  Inland  Sea,  I 
give  here  the  peculiar  build  of  the  boat  in 
which  most  of  my  cruisings  were  made.  Judge 
Wenner's  boat — the  Argo — once  bore  me  to 
and  from  the  Gunnison,  but  the  Cambria,  built 
and  owned  by  Mr.  D.  L.  Davis  of  the  yacht  club, 
a  gentleman  who  has  cruised  more  than  any 
other  one  man  upon  the  Inland  Sea,  up  to  the 
present  time,  has  been  demonstrated  to  be  an 
excellent  craft  to  buffet  the  heavy  waves.  In 
dimensions,  it  is  twenty-  one  feet  over  all,  ten 
feet  beam.  The  hull  (three  feet  depth  of  holdf 
eighteen  inches  draught,)  or,  rather,  hulls, — 
for,  although  the  boat  is  classed  as  a  yacht, 
it  is  strictly  of  a  catamaran  build,— are 
fashioned  on  lines  to  offer  the  least  possible 

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THE  INLAND  SEA 

resistance  to  the  dense  water,  while  at  the 
same  time  keeping  the  boat  perfectly  free  from 
the  danger  of  upsetting.  In  canvas,  it  carries 
a  main  (twenty-four  feet  boom),  and  a  jib,  a 
gaff  and  a  jib  topsail;  and  is  managed,  of 
course,  with  a  double  rudder.  Mr.  Davis, 
however,  has  recently  completed  and  put 
upon  the  sea,  another  and  larger  boat,  with 
better  accommodations,  though  retaining  all 
the  essential  qualities  of  the  first  and  smaller 
boat. 

In  one  of  the  pictures  (III)  reference  is 
made  to  effects  of  mirage.  In  the  foregoing 
diagrams  are  shown  three  effects  of  mirage 
on  the  Inland  Sea.  They  are  but  rarely  seen, 
but  may  be  sometimes  witnessed  on  a  hot 
afternoon  in  July  or  August.  Figure  1  is  a 
bit  of  western  shore,  detached  by  mirage  and 
apparently  floating  in  air,  land  and  reflection 
being  indistinguishable,  and  the  horizon  line 
eaten  away.  In  figure  2,  there  is  the  same 
effect  of  land  and  reflection,  but,  instead  of 
appearing  to  float  in  air,  there  is  a  semblance 

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THE  INLAND  SEA 

to  some  strange  barge  moving  along  the 
horizon.  This  horizon  is,  as  will  be  imagined, 
a  false  one,  and  is  caused  by  a  breeze  moving 
on  the  near  water,  while  the  true  horizon  is 
calm,  and  lost  in  the  sky. 

In  color,  there  is  a  witchery  about  the 
mirage,  far  beyond  the  reach  of  artist's 
palette.  Thus,  in  figure  2,  the  sky  was  of  a 
golden  gray,  absolutely  dazzling  with  light, 
while  the  island  and  its  reflection  were  a  fiery 
yet  decided  blue.  In  figure  3,  again  of 
islands  floating  in  the  air,  the  color  was 
altogether  exquisite — gold-gray  sky,  gold- 
white  clouds;  with  distant  water  the  same 
tint  as  the  sky,  and  which  it  appeared  to  be. 
Nearer,  the  water  was  of  a  pale,  almost 
invisible  green,  crossed  not  by  waves  per 
ceptible  to  the  eye  as  such,  but  by  dim  blurs, 
caused  by  the  faintest,  gentlest  touch  of 
winds. 

There  is  another  phenomenon  to  be  seen  at 
infrequent  periods  on  the  Inland  Sea,  one  that 
is  unpaintable,  and  also,  I  believe,  entirely 
local.  It  is  to  be  witnessed  during  the  calm 

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THE  INLAND  SEA 

summer  twilights,  when  the  pale,  fairy-like 
tints  on  the  water  are  breathed  upon  by 
opposite  currents  of  languid  wind.  As  they 
interplay  in  bands,  in  points,  in  shifting  isles 
of  amber,  azure  and  rose,  the  whole  surface 
shimmers  and  glistens  like  a  silken  robe 
studded  with  countless  pearls. 

In  the  pictures  themselves,  I  have  left  out 
many  entries  from  my  diary  pages  in  which 
are  described  brilliant  effects  of  light  and 
color.  I  feared  to  say  too  much,  the  orig 
inals  unseen,  and  it  might  be  thought  the 
words  were  drawn  from  the  imagination. 
They  were  accurate,  however,  and  I  almost 
regret  their  omission.  Yet  enough  has  been 
said,  perhaps,  to  leave  a  true  impress  upon 
the  mind  of  the  reader,  of  the  strangeness 
and  beauty  of  these  desert  shores  that  are 
washed  by  the  waves  of  the  Inland  Sea. 


150 


